Captain Janeway

by Karen Goldrick

Maybe the biggest mistake I made was when I decided to clone Geoff. I met him on my first day at uni. Since I’d gone to an all girls school, and he was the first male I’d ever laid eyes on, I immediately fell in love. He was queued at the snackshop. He bought a cappuccino and two finger buns. I was on a diet, the first of many. But instead of two spoons of instant with a dash of cold water on top, I went the cap and buns too. Like I said, I fell in love.

From that moment on I hovered close, but not too close. I’d arrive late at lectures, so he’d be sure to notice, then sit two rows in front. This, I calculated, was my best side. I talked and gigged and passed notes, and Professor love would give me the evil eye and fail me in all her pracs. I never turned to look at him, but I imagined his gaze on my neck.

I’d have one more beer at Friday night kegs, then press my way into the circle of blokes and laugh at jokes I could never understand. Sometimes he’d smile at me through the beer and haze, and once he put his arm around me.

And so our relationship progressed. Until Friday night, the twelfth of September, 1986. The night it all ended.

It was midnight. A few weeks before our final year exams, and we’d wanted to let off pent up steam. So we’d scaled the barbed wire enclosure and climbed up inside the inner arch of the Harbour Bridge. At the top we realised the manhole was jammed on. No probs. Geoff volunteered to go back down and get the wheel brace from his car. Sandy, Gid and myself, and two other guys whose names I never knew, drank the whole bottle of Women’s College port while we waited.

I climbed up that ladder in a fuzz of spin, and watched those cars oh so far below me slide along as if on rails of headlight beams. Once my foot nearly slipped, but I was too drunk to care. At the top we sat under the red light and Australian flag, and pondered the early spring chill in a patriotic haze, our legs dangling over the edge. Then he kissed her. He kissed Sandy. He was sitting next to me but he kissed her. My world tumbled down faster than Jericho. I gazed heartbroken at the harbour below and wondered how I’d go on. Somehow, I followed them all back down and buried my despair in a stack of early morning pancakes at the Cross.

They sat together. Holding hands.

That’s when I decided to do something. I woke up on the floor of Gid’s college room and realised I’d missed applied clin path and biochem. I knew that if my life was going to change, then I’d just have to change it.

It took a couple weeks for that decision to morph into the cloning thing. A couple of weeks and a genetics lecture where I sat way down in front so I couldn’t see them together in the back row. Professor Guy Seers mentioned something about cloning. My senses whipped back into the lecture theatre. He said we’d never clone an animal from hair. We needed intact DNA. In other words: a full thickness skin sample.

That was it! I’d clone him. Clone him and keep him all to myself. I maxed my library card and borrowed every book from Badham library with the word clone in the title. I had to get a cab home. Most of them were useless, but they made a fair enough seat as I waded through paired bases and translocation. I missed three days of lectures and had to plead for a sick certificate.

The bottom line was: this wasn’t something I could do at home. In fact, this wasn’t something that had ever been done anywhere. I knew two things. I needed a full thickness skin sample, and I needed to preserve that sample in alcohol. No worries. I rocked up to Friday night’s keg.

First I had to get him away from her. Then I had to get him away from everybody else. I tarted up in leather shorts, fishnet stockings, stilettos and my overcoat. I wore plum lipstick and blusher, and had a swig of Bundy on the way out for luck.

The stilettos kept sinking in the beer swill mud around the keg, so I took them off and slung them over my shoulder. Unfortunately, I accidentally poked Sandy in the eye. Gid took her to the little girl’s room to sort it out. That’s what friends are for.

I’d snuck into the pharmacy earlier that day, disguised as a forth year student. One ml of ketamine was enough. He was so drunk he didn’t even notice. I dragged him round behind the old stables, and with a torch between my teeth used a size 15 scalpel blade to get my sample. It didn’t come together too well. I’d only ever sutured an orange up ’til then. But so long as he wore a shirt no-one would ever see the scar. I popped it in the small mini-bar gin I’d acquired just for the occasion, took a swig, then dragged him back to the action.

He took three days to recover, and had to be admitted to the college infirmary. Sandy confided tearfully that they’d Xrayed him to check he still had two kidneys. I smiled sympathetically, but I had other problems. Now I had to find a surrogate mum.

Gid refused. I could only ask so much of my best friend. I scanned the personals for anyone advertising their services to childless couples. There was one listed in the uni lesbian rag, but she wanted $20,000 for the hire of her uterus. I was faced with the prospect of being the mother to my future lover.

Then I met Sadie.

Sadie was the president of the Blue Stockings: the main rival to the liberal democrats and the socialist party in student politics. She would do anything for the cause. If she felt being pregnant would enhance her position on women’s rights, uni child care and the plight of women in general, then she’d do it. I managed to convince her over a few quiet gins at Manning.

My interest in cloning had naturally lead to some impressive results in genetics, so much so that Prof Seers had asked me if I wanted to take a year off and assist him with a research project. Prof Guy Seers was young and hopeful compared to most academia. Each year he liked to take a female student under his wing, and guide them towards successful career in genetics. Most of his chosen were blond and pneumatic, so I suppose I should have felt flattered. In fact, if I wasn’t so obsessed with Geoff I might have found him attractive. He was lean, tanned, with straggly brown curls and a leery smile. I almost refused him, but something made me dress in a short skirt power suit buttoned low enough to show a black lace bra, and meet with him.

We met in the abandoned tutorial room at lunch. Blinds drawn and door shut. I sat opposite him and crossed my legs. I gazed at the flickering fluorescent light as he described his planned isolation of bacterial DNA proteins and their possible replication. I pursed my lips, nodded slowly, then asked to be shown around the lab. It was perfect: electron microscope, micropippets, protein spectrometers and incubators. I went straight to see the Dean to defer.

Sadie was pretty keen to get pregnant. She was considering doing it the conventional way. I had to get a move on. I wasn’t sure how long Geoff’s DNA was good for, preserved in my bottle of gin.

My brother, a fresher med student, introduced me to Greg Alfords, who introduced me to George Lugano, a frustrated Forth year Anaesthetics lecturer, desperate but unable to make the Pacific leap to Davis or Georgia Atlanta. In return for his help, I agreed to a research paper with his name attached. He introduced me to Warwick Hammond, a meatball surgeon. I would have been happy with our equine surgeons but I suppose Sadie deserved better.

It was summer and the hospital air conditioners weren’t working. Sadie sat outside on the brown grass having her last cigarette. I gowned and gloved to watch as they harvested a dozen eggs. I suppose the heat got to me, and I fell over. That was the last time I was allowed to watch the surgery.

In the genetics department Seers hovered and intruded my personal space like an annoying moth. I was still a virgin in those days. I was saving my self for my white knight. But finally Seers got to me. One Friday at four, when the rest had left for the weekend, I threw back a gin and some ephedrine, and barged into his office. It was over almost before I knew it. I lay on his pull out sofa, deflowered and deflated, my pulse racing, as he pulled on his shorts to leave.

“Be sure to lock up,” he said.

After that he stayed clear, and I was able to get on with it. I used the electron microscope to guide my shaking hand as I attempted to removed Sadie’s DNA from her eggs. Those membranes are so bloody flimsy. Finally I had eight tiny eggshells surrounding Geoff’s DNA. Eight Wee Geoffs to choose from. I used the electrostimulation to begin mitosis, and shoved them back in the incubator.

I had to drag Sadie’s cigarette from her mouth and drag her back to the surgery. I thought perhaps I’d been rash. I wasn’t convinced she was the ideal incubator for Wee Geoff. Warwick implanted four Wee Geoffs into her uterus, but they shared my qualms. They didn’t hang around for long.

“I’m not sure about this implanting stuff,” she confided between drags of B and H extra mild. “I want to have sex. Normal conventional sex.”

Personally, I couldn’t think why.

Warwick implanted two more Wee Geoffs and I worried my self into a two packet a day habit waiting for the news. Gid came over to help me finish the tim tams. She dipped hers in black coffee and sucked the coffee up the sodden cream between the two biscuits.

“It’s over,” she said.

“What’s over?” I dropped mine right in my coffee.

“Geoff and Sandy. Over. Kaputt. She reckons he’s too demanding. Overbearing. Protective. Whatever. Anyway,” she said, licking the brown goo from her teeth, “He’s heartbroken.”

I put down my coffee. I felt sick thinking of all those Timtams and what they’d done to my hips, my thighs, my waist. I went to the bathroom and tried to throw up, but my gag reflex was too efficient. I couldn’t poke my finger down far enough. Lord knows how Diana does it. I took five Senna tablets and sat on the toilet for two days. Then I got up at 5.30 am, swam twenty laps and spent 45 minutes sweating in the gym. There was a keg coming up, and I was going to mend Geoff’s heart.

Sadie phoned to tell me she was tired of waiting and could she please have one cigarette. If all went well, she could have a whole case. I dieted and worked out like crazy the whole week, living on Cup-A-Soup and Ryvitas. After all that effort I lost almost 400g. I wore tight stretch jeans which sucked everything up and deposited it north, a blouse on top, and white heeled lace up boots. I mucked around with jars of goop and a blowdryer to fix my hair, and wore large parrot ear-rings in my ears. I was ready to conquer.

I arrived late. The keg was in full swing. I filled a large plastic cup to overflowing and and scanned the drunken throng. He wasn’t there. Too heartbroken to even show. I finished my beer and had to undo the top button of my jeans before I could drink another. Gid was over by the trees with Pen and Sandy. I sauntered over. There was talk of pracs and exams and touch footy, but no mention of Geoff. By 10pm Sandy had locked lips with a fifth year I’d never seen before. At 10.30 Geoff arrived, arms around Melanie Moore ... or melons as the boys fondly called her. Heartbroken my little toe.

Geoff and Sandy spent that whole evening tacitly ignoring each other and engaging their respective new partners. At midnight they both vanished. I took off my boots, rubbed my feet and walked home. I hoped Sadie hadn’t had too many cigarettes.

This time her Clearview was positive. She proudly showed me the twin pink stripes. I should have been overjoyed, but I was still down after my failure on Friday night. Besides. What was I going to do with a baby Geoff? I wanted him twenty-something, toned and tanned. Genetics wasn’t going to help me anymore. I needed physiology.

There was a story on 60 Minutes about some Colombian Scientists who had somehow managed to speed up the growth of rats using synthetic growth hormone. I had Gid help me draft a letter an Spanish requesting a copy of their paper. I had Warwick track down some synthetic growth hormone at the uni hospital, and I had to convince Sadie that she wouldn’t age prematurely if she had the injections. I wasn’t quite sure about the latter, but I could think about that later.

We reduced Sadie’s gestation to 4 months, and on 25th July I dragged her kicking and screaming into the labour ward, promising her a lifetime’s nicotine. She was a natural, and popped him out in 26 hours and 34 minutes. An ugly red screaming bundle of joy.

We moved in together and played happy families for a while, and I continued to give little Geoff injections of GH. After 6 months he looked as big as a six year old.

“He’s too big,” she whinged between drags of Dunhill Menthol, “I want a baby I can carry around while I campaign.”

We let her have the last two embryos so long as she moved out. But I had another problem. Notwithstanding the fact that I was failing by Phd, and was tired and broke, How could I ensure Wee Geoff grew into an exact copy of big Geoff. I needed the help of an expert. My brother put me in touch with the Cognitive Division.

Cecilia Abbotsford was angular and severe, with horn rimmed glasses Clark Kent would have been proud of. She wore her dark hair in a pin bun on top of her head, and pencil straight skirts so she could hardly move her knees.

“I’ll need more information,” she said after I painted the picture of the Geoff I wanted. “His upbringing, his favourite food, his favourite colour.”

“I can spy on him,” I offered.

“No. Better still. I should meet him,” she said, her glasses neat on her tiny nose.

By now Wee Geoff was the size of a ten year old. Geoff Sadie and Gid had moved on to fourth year and I’d sort of lost touch. They sat under the Jacarandas having lunch in pristine lab coats with stethoscopes slung around their necks. Cecilia’s stilettos sank in the wet lawn as we walked across to meet them.

“Hi guys. How’s the beasts?” I asked them.

“Hey Jane,” said Geoff, but his eyes were on Cecilia, or rather, on her breasts. He was happy to show her around the vet school. I heard later that he’d volunteered to help her with a research project. Sandy, who’d never taken much notice of me anyway, stopped talking to me altogether.

Cecilia gave me tapes, and I put a tape recorder under Wee Geoff’s pillow and played them to him every night. He tagged along with me to the pool and the gym, and by the time he was sixteen, or I should say, two and a half, he had a toned physique similar to Geoff. Similar, but not the same. He had a few pimples too, more than a few. And he needed glasses. I asked Cecilia if Geoff ever wore glasses.

“Only for show,” she sniffed. “Perhaps it’s a side effect of the growth hormones.”

I wondered what other side effects there might be. It wasn’t long before I found out. He was small. As his foster mum, I was privilege to that kind of information. I knew, despite my relative sexual naivete, that most sixteen year olds had … well … dropped. But not my Wee Geoff. His wee wee was very wee.

This wasn’t my only problem. Sadie came over. She looked dreadful.

“It’s much harder than I ever thought,” she wept over her coffee. The twins, Eustace and Caspian squirmed and cried in their pram. Her skin was dry and wrinkled. Her long hair gone grey.

“I haven’t got time to campaign any more. I’ll have to ... relinquish ... the Blue Stockings.”

I assured her she was doing well. She was a hero to single mums around the globe and should maintain her position at the Blue stockings. I suggested she defer, she’d done so before, and put her in touch with a counsellor.

“Who’s your boyfriend?” she said as Geoff slunk in and slammed his bedroom door. He was a moody bugger in those days. Another side effect.

My degree wasn’t going so well either. The Dean called me in. I’d failed my PHd and if I didn’t pick up the pace I’d probably have to do forth year again. By this time Gid and Geoff were about to graduate.

I wasn’t invited but I went along anyway. I’d locked wee Geoff indoors. His moods were ... unpredictable. I sat up the back of the great hall, and watched them all in their graduation shawls and hats. I watched Geoff’s broad shoulders as he walked up on stage to accept his degree. When he turned to face me the overhead lights reflected on his metal rimmed glasses. So John Lennon. After the ceremony I approached hesitantly in the main quad.

But he smiled came over and gave me a warm hug. He let me try on his hat. They all went to dinner and drinks at Badham Hall and he pulled me over a seat to join them. All night we minced and flirted and I couldn’t believe this wasn’t all a dream. And I was still dreaming when I followed him out behind the old fountain and we had the best snog ever. Which would have lead to the best something else if Wee Geoff hadn’t have shown up.

He was mad … He’d broken open the lock and found the car keys. Then somehow, God knows how, he’d found me.

“Who the fuck is this?” he asked, pushing Geoff away.

“Who the fuck is this?” Geoff replied.

It was dark and my eyes were reeling from the kiss and the drink. They looked identical. I couldn’t make out Wee Geoff’s pimples, his smaller build. As they circled around each other I got confused. and couldn’t tell which was which. Maybe that’s why I didn’t try to stop him. There was a struggle, and one of them produced a scalpel blade. Funny. There wasn’t really much blood. Lucky I suppose. No mess.

I was pretty pissed off at Wee Geoff. Afterwards, as we rowed out in the harbour in a borrowed college punt and pushed Geoff into the depths, he said he was sorry. We dropped him under the harbour bridge, right in the middle, where I supposed the red light should be.

Wee Geoff took up Geoff’s position as an equine practitioner in the Hawksbury. After all, he had a virtual degree, courtesy of Cecilia’s tapes. He did OK, for a couple of years. Then he came to visit. He said he just wasn’t up to it anymore. He looked 101. I found him a nice quiet retirement home near the beach.

I saw Warwick a few years later. He’d given up waiting for me to write that paper on human cloning, and joined some religious cult. He was going to help them achieve eternal life, he said. Sadie became the figurehead for all struggling single mums on campus. The wrinkles and grey hairs only enhanced her standing. She wrote several books, and never finished her degree. Her boys, Eustace and Caspian, look more and more like Geoff every day. Sometimes, in my darker moments, I fantasise about waiting for them to grow up a little.

After I finally graduated, Gid and I pooled our funds, borrowed some money, and set up a practice exclusively for small pets: mice, rats, guinea pigs. We went bust, of course, but had a lot of fun doing it. Then I ran into Seers one day at a conference. He’d porked out and his curls had receded. We had coffee and I discussed some theories I had about cloning. We’ve applied for a grant, and I’ve still got that bottle of gin. You never know ...