Chapter 3 - The Genesis Protocol
"Dr. Vance," I said, my voice dropping into a deadly, ice-cold register that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. "I thought your lab was located three hundred miles south in the restricted sector. What a fascinating coincidence to find you babysitting in my nursery."
Elena Vance froze, her thumb hovering over the plunger of the syringe. For a fraction of a second, panic flickered in her eyes, but she quickly masked it behind a cold, clinical mask of professional arrogance.
"Major Vance," she replied smoothly, though her pulse point at her throat thudded visibly. "Or should I say, former intelligence officer operating outside his jurisdictional clearance. You really shouldn't sneak up on people. It's bad for cardiovascular health."
"Drop the syringe, Elena. Now," I ordered, stepping fully into the nursery and planting my feet in a tactical stance.
In the center of the room, the mahogany crib hummed softly, equipped with medical monitors, intravenous drip lines, and biometric sensors that looked like they belonged in a Level-4 biohazard containment facility rather than a suburban home. Inside the crib, a tiny infant stirred, letting out a weak breath. My son. His skin had a faint, iridescent tint under the overhead LED panels—something entirely unnatural.
"You're making a massive mistake," Elena said calmly, not dropping the syringe. "This child isn't just a baby, Daniel. He is the culmination of a four-year clinical trial. An accelerated genetic synthesis project funded entirely through private grants—grants managed, incidentally, by your mother's estate."
The pieces of the nightmare clicked violently into place.
My mother didn't just want to steal our money; she had sold our family line to a corporate bioweapons contractor. Emily hadn't died of natural causes or childbirth complications. She had been used as a human incubator for an unauthorized, high-tier genetic experiment.
"Where is my wife?" I demanded, closing the distance between us with terrifying speed.
Before Elena could react, I swept her arm downward, striking her wrist with a sharp karate chop. The syringe flew from her fingers, clattering harmlessly against a plush rug, while I twisted her arm behind her back and pinned her against the edge of the changing table.
"Where is she?!" I roared, the calculated patience finally snapping under the sheer weight of betrayal.
"She's alive, you idiot!" Elena gasped out, wincing in pain. "She's in the basement medical suite! But she's in a medically induced stasis because her body rejected the second phase of the retroviral integration!"
A wave of dizzying relief crashed over me, instantly followed by white-hot fury. Alive. Emily was alive. They hadn't buried her; they had put her in a box downstairs to break my spirit and trick me into signing away my trust rights while I was psychologically vulnerable.
"If she has even a single scratch on her, I will take this entire facility apart brick by brick," I whispered directly into Elena's ear before slamming her wrists into plastic zip-ties I pulled from my cargo pocket. I secured her to the heavy iron frame of the crib.
I turned away from her and rushed over to the crib. I gently scooped my son up into my arms. He was feather-light, breathing shallowly, but his tiny fingers instantly curled around my thumb with a fierce, instinctive grip.
"I've got you," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. "Daddy's here. You're safe."
I tucked him securely against my chest inside my uniform jacket, shielding him from the cold air. Then, I grabbed the digital tablet off the changing table. Its screen was unlocked, displaying a real-time neural and genetic telemetry dashboard titled: Project Genesis: Subject 01 - Viability Status.
I scrolled past lines of complex DNA sequencing data until I hit the audio logs. I tapped the most recent file.
Emily's voice filled the room, raspy, exhausted, but filled with absolute defiance.
"If you're listening to this, Daniel, it means they finally cornered me. Margaret and Caleb sold the research rights to BioGenics behind my back while you were deployed. They induced labor three months early to harvest the core cellular samples. I fought them, but they overpowered me. Don't believe a word my mother says. The body in the living room isn't me—it's a clinical decoy clone grown from my somatic tissue to fake my death and force you into signing the probate waiver. Find the basement vault. Save our son. Burn them all down."
The audio file ended with a sharp click and the sound of a struggle.
I stared down at the screen, my hands trembling slightly. A clone. They had grown a decoy body, staged a funeral in my own living room, and tried to psychological-warfare me into surrendering custody of my child and our entire estate.
Downstairs, the front door slammed open with a deafening bang.
"Daniel! Drop the tablet and come down here before someone gets seriously hurt!" Caleb’s voice echoed up the stairwell, accompanied by the distinct, heavy clack of a pump-action shotgun being loaded.
They realized I had bypassed their security protocols. The gloves were completely off.
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I looked down at my son sleeping against my chest, felt the cold hard plastic of the memory card in my pocket, and tapped the encrypted backup button on the tablet, transmitting the entire database directly to my secure military server in Washington.
The trap was set. Now, it was time to spring it.
