Hounds of Rome by Tom Clancy
“What are you really talking about? What kind of treatment? Is ‘tissue sample’ a cute way of saying sperm?”
“It couldn’t have been sperm. That’s one thing I know for sure, I never donated any sperm. Steve, I had hoped I’d never have to tell you this, but I suppose now is the time. Steve, you’ve heard of cloning, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t know anything much about it. What has it got to do with me?” Steve angrily folded his arms waiting for an answer.
“Please calm down while I try to explain. I’m not a biologist. I can only tell you the little I know. You were not the product of a normal conception. You were cloned from me. The treatment was Mother’s way of producing another version of me. I tell you I didn’t know about it. Mother must have cooked it up with that doctor. Dad was undoubtedly told about it after the fact.”
“How could you not have known about it?”
“For Chrissake, I was a teenager. Gimme a break. How in hell was I supposed to know what the adults were up to? I only went to that hospital once. After that, Mother must have gone up there a dozen times. The way I see it, the doctor probably froze some of my tissue, did some DNA manipulations and then re-implanted one of mother’s eggs with the new DNA. These things are tricky, however. That’s why I think it took a number of tries until a satisfactory fetus formed and later, you were born.”
“What about this so-called doctor? Who is he? Where is he?”
“I have no idea. For all I know he may be dead, and since Mother’s dead and Dad’s dead the trail is cold, although I suppose it’s all documented—if you were able to find the documents. As I said, they did it because Mother insisted on having another child. One, you might say, ‘just like me.’ I know it’s sick, but I suppose she was afraid that if anything happened to me, she’d have nothing.”
“Except Dad.”
“Yes, Dad, but you know how she felt about him.”
“So I was supposed to be another you,” Steve said in disgust. “Exactly like you. A twin, but a twin who was a little tardy in arriving—in fact, almost twenty years late. Well, it didn’t turn out that way, did it, because we’re not really alike even though we look alike. Interesting that they couldn’t clone my brain to make it exactly like yours.”
“But they did, Steve. The differences in cloned twins and, in fact, in any twins, come during early brain development. I’ve read up on some of that stuff. At birth, the brain is not really completely formed. It develops in response to early stimulation. Even though we both started out with what you might call identical equipment, our experiences were different, we were treated differently and our brains developed differently, so now we are actually different people.”
“Thank God for that because I’d hate to be sitting where you are selling real estate,” Steve said sarcastically.
“You can’t imagine how much I’d hate being a Catholic priest!” Jonathon said forcing a smile, trying to lighten up the conversation.
Steve stood up, lips pursed, head down, shoulders sagging. He started slowly pacing the floor. He was humiliated by the knowledge that his birth wasn’t intended to produce a new person: him—it was only to produce a carbon copy of his brother. If the miserable treatment he had suffered at the hands of his church over the past months was difficult to bear, this new knowledge could, if he let it, throw him into the depths of confusion and despair. He felt cheap and cheated. He had been manufactured not created. “So now I know why I was abruptly transferred from my parish and finally sent to that hellhole in the desert,” he said angrily. “Rhinehart must have found out about it. By the way, how do you think he found out?” Steve asked, as he abruptly stopped pacing the floor and stood over his brother glaring down at him.
“Must have been from the priest who attended Mother’s bedside.” Jonathon shrugged his shoulders, trying to explain. “The one who gave her last rites. He overheard her tell me about it.”
“You mean, up until then you never knew?”
“No, I really didn’t. It hit me like a ton of bricks too. And when I found out while Mother was dying, I certainly had no intention of telling you. What was the point of clouding your life? But Mother insisted that you would eventually have to be told.”
“The priest in Mother’s room must have called Rhinehart.”
“Yes, he must have. When he and I met in the hall outside Mother’s room we talked it over and I saw he was visibly disturbed. You know Steve, years ago, when I was in that hospital, or laboratory—whatever you want to call it, it crossed my mind that something unusual was going on there. The only thing I could think of was maybe they were testing me to see if I might be a suitable donor of an organ for Mother like a kidney or something, or maybe a bone marrow match. I figured it was something embarrassing they didn’t want to talk about. In those days, you may remember, the adults only whispered about serious problems like TB and cancer and only when the younger generation wasn’t around. And years ago, who in hell ever heard of cloning? They never told me the story. But nothing ever came of it that affected me, so I figured why sweat it? Eventually, when you were born and Mother seemed all right, I stopped even wondering about it. That’s not so terrible, is it?”
“No, I suppose not,” Steve said softening.
“You know Steve, if you had gotten up here pronto when I called you and told you Mother was dying, you would have been the only priest in the room. You could have performed the last rites instead of that priest who was brought in. When she kept insisting I tell you the story, it came out that the clone she was talking about was a priest. From then on, it escalated. And when that priest who gave her last rites and I had a discussion outside the room about cloning and the attitude of the church, he seemed to me to be outraged at what he had heard.”
“Look, I know enough about cloning to know the church’s position is that cloning of a human is immoral, a serious sin. But for a clergyman to be outraged is a bit much.”
“Worse than that, Steve. I know this sounds awful, but the priest and some others in the Catholic Church like him, and in fact, many people in other religions, don’t think a clone qualifies as a human being.”
“As a what?” Steve was wide-eyed. “That’s absurd,” he exclaimed almost in a shout. “What about identical twins that are born naturally? Twins qualify as two independent human beings. Maternal twins split from one fertilized egg. No one doubts that they each have a soul. And didn’t I just hear you say we’re twins— only twins that are eighteen years apart?”
“It just isn’t that simple, Steve. I’ve spent a lot of time at the Harvard Med School library trying to understand the medical implications of this.”
“Why?”
“You’re my brother and you may not believe it but I do care about you. I also dug into some Catholic theology books written for the layman. I knew that some day you would find out about the cloning, probably through the church.”
“What did you learn?” Steve asked, still badly shaken by the revelation.
“Frankly, Steve, there are a lot of generalities and lots of weasel wording. It poses a tough ethical question for religion. Of course, as you mentioned, the church roundly condemns cloning, but I couldn’t find anything concrete relating to the ensoulment of clones.”
“So, what’s the conclusion?”
“If the Vatican hasn’t spoken directly to the issue, a conference of bishops can consider it. Of course, their findings are subject to ratification by the Vatican. In narrowly framed cases, it comes down to an individual archbishop or cardinal to make his own decision for his diocese. And from his actions, I would say that Bishop Rhinehart, who is on his way to becoming cardinal, has come to a negative decision about clones. To put it bluntly, in the eyes of your boss Rhinehart, a human clone is a manufactured product, thus not the product of conception. There are many religious authorities, not just Catholics either, who maintain that science has gone too far in usurping God’s role. They say that a clone may not have a soul. It raises the q
“No soul? That’s absurd.”
“Depends on how you look at it. The tissue donor has one. The surrogate mother also, but the thing procreated? Look at it this way: what if they cloned an arm say, to be used as a replacement body part. Would God give it a soul? Take it one step further. What if they cloned a headless body, again, intended to be used as replacement body parts. Would God provide a soul for this thing? Don’t you see why some religious authorities believe this whole business puts man in the position of manipulating God?”
On hearing this, Steve felt his stomach twisting itself into a painful knot. “Good grief! Right after Mother died why didn’t you tell me all this?”
“First of all, dear brother, I was slightly pissed off that you couldn’t even make it here on time for Mother’s last few hours on earth. Not to mention all the years when you avoided contact with us. On top of that, I thought why go out of my way to tell you something that was sure to make you miserable? At the time, I thought if you never found out, what was the harm? That priest who gave Mother last rites didn’t actually say he was going to do anything about it. I thought maybe nothing would come of it. I tried to keep him quiet by calling it part of her last confession. I had hoped he’d be bound by the Seal of the Confessional. He didn’t seem to buy it, however, because he said he had already given her absolution. So her announcement was outside of her actual confession. I also thought there was a chance that if word got to the archdiocese, the bishop might not make a big deal out of it—considering the whopping shortage of priests. You’ve been a dedicated priest, and it seemed to me maybe nobody would give a damn about how you were conceived.”
“They apparently do give a damn,” Steve said as he got up from his chair. “Lend me a sweater or something to put over this T-shirt. I need to go for a walk.”
*****
Steve Murphy the man, walked the street he had trod as a boy. He stopped in front of the church where he had served as an altar boy for so many years. The church was locked after the last Sunday Mass. Shrugging his shoulders, he walked on. A block further on, he came to the corner tavern—the place where the men gathered for a drink after Mass. It was full. He entered it for the first time in his life. Once inside, he realized his mistake. The noise was overwhelming. His hope of finding a quiet corner vanished. He bought a pack of cigarettes. He ordered a beer.
“Is that you, Jonathon?” the barkeep asked, confused in the dim light.
“No, I’m his brother, Steve.”
“Ah, the priest! Forgive me, Father, but you’ve never been in here before, have you?”
“No. This is my first step on the way to Hell,” Steve said, forcing a laugh. I was hoping to find a table where I could sit and do a little thinking.”
“We have a nice quiet backroom. Sit and have your beer there, Father.”
“Thanks,” Steve said, bringing his beer and a bowl of chips with him. Happily, the room was empty. He sat at a corner table. He opened the pack and lit up. When his glass was empty, he was surprised to find the bar had a waitress. She brought him another beer.
He sat staring at nothing for a long time. He was still in shock and disbelief coupled with the beginning stage of self-doubt. Anger, misery, and despair would come later after the impact of Jonathon’s words had sunk in to occupy a permanent spot in his brain.
Can all this crap be true? Why has my family visited this curse on me? She didn’t want me—she wanted another him. And now that the word is out it screws up everything I’ve tried to build my life on. Now I know the reason for the transfers and why they’re trying to defrock me if I won’t resign. I see now that I’m an embarrassment to the church. An American Catholic priest a clone? People going to confession and receiving communion from a clone? Where does technology take us next, robot priests? Step right up, Ladies and Gentlemen, R2-D2 is going to hear your confession.
He was sick with worry about this threat to his chosen way of life, but worse than that, he was almost overcome with a feeling of unworthiness in the eyes of God. How could God love someone who was virtually an imposter—a sham not only as a priest but even as a simple member of the faith and perhaps not even a valid member of the human race?
He felt a tap on the shoulder. Jonathon had followed him to the bar. “I locked up the office. Planning to meet Marge for dinner. Care to join us?”
“No thanks. The way I feel now, I’d spoil dinner for the both of you.”
“I put your jacket and shirtwaist in your car.”
“Jonathon, if you’ve got time for a drink, I’ve got some more questions.”
“OK,” Jonathon said sliding into a chair.
“Tell me more about that doctor—the one who did the cloning.”
“I don’t know much more. I gather he was not a traditional surgeon— more a scientific type, an experimenter.”
“What a hell of a thing to experiment on! He has created me in the image and likeness of you. I’m no more than another you.”
“Not quite, Steve. Let’s look at this a little closer. It’s true we are a lot alike, but now that I think about it, I also see physical differences.”
“Naturally, because of the difference in our ages.”
“Possibly, but perhaps more than that. Steve, don’t take this the wrong way, but you come across as a bit darker complected than me. The five o’clock shadow you always get, I don’t get that. Then too, let’s compare arms. Physically much the same but notice that you have a lot more hair on your arms. Overall, your hair is several shades darker than mine.”
“That’s baloney, again. As people age, their skin and hair get lighter. What you’re looking at is simply the aging phenomena. Remember, you’re an old man, Jonathon,” Steve said, feeling a sudden urge to strike back at Jonathon.
Jonathon was at a loss to say anything that would ease the burden on his brother. He fell silent. He sipped his drink—a dry martini. Steve noticed that Jonathon’s hand shook as he raised his glass spilling a little of the drink on the table. It struck Steve that although life had given him a raw deal, life had given his brother with Lou Gehrig’s disease a very raw deal. He knew that Jonathon was facing a slow, terrifying death—trouble controlling muscular movements, trouble swallowing, trouble breathing, drowning in his own fluids.
Suddenly, Steve had a glimpse of the future. The horror hit him. If he was in fact a cloned twin of Jonathon, he might eventually die the same way. He believed that Lou Gehrig’s disease had a genetic component; that’s the way his father and grandfather had died. It might not work out that way in every case, but in his case, as an identical clone, how could he escape it? But then he had another thought. How did anyone really know how they would die if they weren’t actually on the deathbed? After all, he might be hit by a train. A wry thought. It brought the trace of a smile to his face.
“I see you’re smiling,” Jonathon said.
“Nothing important. I just thought of something. Not even worth mentioning.”
Jonathon looked at Steve. “What are your plans? Where do you go from here?”
“I’m driving up to the pond. I need to spend some time thinking things out.”
“While you’re thinking, pay some attention to Janet. She said she planned to join you up there next weekend. But after that, what? Forgive me for saying it, Steve, but you don’t seem to have much future in the church.”
“I plan,” Steve said, sounding weary, “to remain a priest. I made a vow that I don’t intend to break. I made it with God, not the hierarchy of the church.” But even as he uttered the words, Steve wondered about the validity of his vows. His pompous pronouncements might have been little more than a cover for the fact that he did not know what else he could do, what else he wanted to do. For almost his whole life, the only role he knew how to play was that of a priest.
“How can you manage that when word gets out that you’re being defrocked?”
“For one t
“I notice,” Jonathon said quietly, “you’re starting to refer to the church as ‘their’ church. You used to call it ‘my’ church.”
*****
For a long time after his brother left, Jonathon sat in the back room of the bar sipping another martini. “They’re right about the Irish,” he mumbled to himself. “We drink in celebration when we’re happy; we drink to soothe our misery when we’re sad.” Finally, he got up with a shrug, then, deep in thought, waved to the barkeep as he left, and walked slowly up Wayland’s main street.
As he walked, he found he could not put aside his discussion with the priest in the hall outside the room where his mother died. For the first time in his life, he became aware of just how extraordinary the church’s view of ensoulment at conception is. “As I understand it,” he mumbled half-aloud as he walked, “according to the Catholic Church and perhaps all the rest of the Christian churches, the all-seeing God is present when a couple have sex. God presumably watches carefully for the moment of orgasm of the male, then following the instant of ejaculation, when a single sperm swims strongly up the birth canal outdistancing millions of his fellow sperm, to wind up fertilizing the egg, the almighty steps in to bestow the trophy—a human soul. In fact, he must do this because otherwise we would have to believe that two humans have the power to produce a supernatural essence in the absence of God. Subsequently, if the embryo splits to form an identical twin, God is still present and readily provides a second soul. I wonder: Do they really believe this? Are there really three in the bedroom during sex? Since God is God he surely is not present for reasons of voyeurism, therefore his presence must simply be to acknowledge the union and provide ensoulment to the new person being created. Does God do this for non-Catholics as well? What about atheists?”