Welcome… To Reaganurassic Park

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Image by Catherine Soule

Yesterday, news reports began circulating of a Channel Islands auction house selling what it claims is Ronald Reagan’s blood. The seller says the pro-market president would have wanted him to make a profit, but why you’d want to sell such a thing is much less important than why you’d want to buy it. There’s only one reason to purchase Reagan’s blood, and it should give us serious pause, as the consequences could be dire. As it happens, I am working on a novel, Reaganurassic Park, about this very topic, to be released as soon as a publisher returns my calls. In the meantime, here is an excerpt:

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“You can’t possibly be serious, Mr. Thiel,” Dr. Macolm Ian said as soon as the group had exited the screening room. “What we just saw was science fiction. Sure, such things may be possible in theory, but in practice… And if you could do what you’re saying you can do, why would you even want to do it?”

“You should know I never brag,” Peter Thiel intoned in his gravelly voice. “I only state the facts. As for why we’d want to do this, well, one word: tourism.”

“Tourism?” Dr. Ellie Dern said, letting out a giggle that you’d never think came from one of America’s preeminent geneticists. “You mean, there are a bunch of people who are going to fly to a remote tropical island to see—”

“—the 40th President of the United States, and one of the greatest men of the century?” Thiel said, striding briskly down the hallway towards the double doors that said RONNIE DEVELOPMENT: STAFF ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. “Yes, I think they will. In these times, with that socialist,” the word came spitting out of his mouth, “in the White House, Americans want to see a real man, and will pay handsomely for that privilege. And here,” Thiel concluded with a theatrical flourish as he pushed open the doors, “is where we make real men.”

The doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked a vast room divided into sections by partitions. One section was a nursery where dozens of babies—their faces already hinting at the strong jaw and presidential hair they would grow in time—slept swaddled in blankets, cried at the breasts of nurses who bore more than a passing resemblance to Nancy Reagan, and sucked at the nipples of milk machines. Further away from the group were a series of houses and lawns that could have easily come out of the 1920s Midwest, and then a set of classrooms where dozens of identical, conservatively-dressed boys received instruction in such subjects as reading, writing, arithmetic, and anti-communism. From the floor came the cacophony of childhood happening all at once: the squealing of newborns, the taunts and cries of victory from games of football and tag, the drone of serious young men reciting times tables or the Lord’s Prayer in unison, and finally, and, so far away that it was out of the group’s sight, the whoops of newly-minted high school graduates on their way to identical careers in radio, film, and someday, politics.

“…we have to artificially accelerate their growth and implant some memories at certain points,” Thiel was saying as his guests took the view in, feeling a little smug that his project had inspired such a reaction in these liberal academics, “but I’m sure The Gipper himself would agree you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

“Oh my God…” Dern said.

“This is remarkable!” Dr. Sam Grant exclaimed. “I mean, from a purely technical point of view. From a moral point of view, of course, I mean, isn’t this a bit cruel?”

Thiel laughed. “Oh, our Reagans are very well taken care of, Dr. Grat. More so than they would be in the outside world, where their unique creativity and thirst for freedom would be stifled. We monitor each of them very closely. Though, of course, once they are outside of the nursery and in our open-ended habitat they compete with themselves freely.” Thiel grinned in that sly, ain’t-I-clever way that had made nearly every other Silicon Valley venture capitalist want to punch him in the face at one time or another. “We think it’s what he would have wanted.”

“Well, excuse my French, but fuck the morality of what happens to a bunch of vat babies,” Ian said. “I mean, you’ve cloned them all from a single strand of incomplete DNA from a decades-old blood sample and pumped them full of fake memories—I don’t even know if they count as fully functional human beings. But have you thought about what’s going to happen if they breed? Or escape?”

Another one of Thiel’s shit-eating grins. Ian, who hadn’t been in an honest-to-God fight since grade school, felt his hands twitch into fists involuntarily. “Oh, you think they’d escape and destroy your government bureaucracy paradise, Dr. Ian?” Thiel taunted. “Or maybe cut some funding for useless political ‘science’? Well, not to worry. Our Ronnies are kept behind electrified fences, away from the visitors, who might contaminate them. And they’re all male, so how could they breed?”

“Life finds a way,” Ian muttered under his breath.

“I’m sure you’ll change your mind once we go out on safari,” Thiel said, turning the tour away from the underground warehouse of Ronald Reagans reaching maturity at levels approximately 2.7 times faster than normal humans do. “This sort of thing is behind-the-scenes anyway. What our guests will see is much more, ah, user-friendly.”

Well, at least the weather here is an attraction I can appreciate, Ian thought to himself as the Reaganurassic Park branded jeep thrummed slowly along the deeply-grooved tour road. The air wasn’t too humid, the dry heat was relieved by a slight breeze coming off the ocean, and the blue sky was as cloudless and untroubled as the Great Communicator’s brain. It might have reminded the Reagans of their ancestor’s adopted home state of California, if any of them had ever been there.

Thiel was chattering non-stop—the guy was great at talking, Ian would give him that—while the car ran its route automatically, going past fields and forests and gently rolling hills, all impossibly green and bright in the South Pacific sun, all full of Ronald Reagans. Reagans tossing footballs to one another, Reagans in shirtsleeves helping each other build sturdy split-level homes, Reagans striding manfully along trails discussing the Laffer Curve with one another, Reagans acting in B-movies directed by other Reagans and filmed by other Reagans in front of sets designed and built by yet still more Reagans. (Some of the actor-Reagans were in dresses, wigs, and makeup, which suggested a number of possible disturbing social scenarios to Ian, who at one point had minored in Gender Studies.) There was even an audience of Reagans listening to a Reagan who appeared to be especially charismatic and Reagan-esque (if such a phrase can be applied to a clone of Ronald Reagan) deliver a version of the “Mr. Gorbachev tear down this wall!” speech.

“Fascinating,” Dr. Grant murmured from the back seat. “They appear to be organically developing hierarchies among themselves.” Thiel beamed, clearly imagining the moves it would take to bring the sociologist over to his side.

Ah, fucking academics! Ian thought, as the jeep came to a stop outside of a football field where two teams of padded and helmeted Reagans played for the enjoyment of a bandstand filled with Reagans of varying ages. Never worry about the real-world consequences. A whole fucking island filled with clones of a charismatic anti-commie lunatic who could get elected president today with almost no trouble is “interesting,” Grant? Fuck you. A new species of beetle is “interesting,” a paper on local American dialects is “interesting,” Dern’s tits are “interesting.” This island is terrifying.

Thiel was explaining how much the Reagans enjoyed playing football, and how the version they were playing was just like the 1920s version Ronnie himself played, right down to the lack of rules and leather helmets, when one of the Reagans, out of control and stumbling after a tough block by one of the meatier Reagans, slammed himself against the electric fence three feet away from their jeep. There was very little noise, but the Reagan’s body spasmed and he jerked away from the fence as if he had been hit by a car, his face momentarily twisted in an inhuman way that was awful for Ian to see, even on the face of a clone of one of his most reviled former presidents. Something like the smell of burnt lamb wafted through the air. Dr. Dern audibly gasped and grabbed at Ian’s shoulder for comfort, which for him at least was some silver lining.

“Well,” Thiel said, in the silence that resulted from play stopping and the entire game, spectators and players both, staring at the fence and the road and the jeep, which they had been previously ignoring—staring, Ian thought, in a very disconcerting way, like they were collectively trying to repress some very, very strong feelings, or possibly figure some feelings out. “Well,” Thiel began again, “there are still some kinks to be worked out. When they opened Disneyland in 1956, nothing worked!”

“Disneyland was not a slave camp filled with clones,” Ian said, and he thought it was a fairly good point, though Thiel chose to ignore it. The jeep moved on. At least the machines here were fully functional.

“Aren’t you a little concerned about losing control of them?” Dern asked.

“Oh, no,” Thiel laughed, his libertarian billionaire swagger coming back now that he was asked a question he had clearly prepped for. “At birth, every Ronnie is implanted with a chip that lets us shut them down at will from the office. And of course, there’s no way that could ever malfunction. Not to mention the accelerated aging process means that it’s unlikely any of them will ever be around long enough to foment rebellion or anything like that. Ingrained in every Ronald Reagan is a sense of duty and loyalty. It’s simply not in them to become ‘revolutionaries.’” Thiel laughed as if he had made a joke.

“Where do all the old Reagans go, anyway?” Ian asked. “Dumped in a ditch?”

“Clearly you think I’m very cruel,” Thiel said, shrugging as if the word had no meaning to him. “We’re working on the problem of gracefully retiring them at the moment. For now, they’re in this meadow up ahead.”

The jeep slowed again, and they reached a part of the island bordered by a tall, thick hedge. This section was dominated by a one-story dormitory surrounding a well-manicured garden that had the brittle tranquility of the grounds of a mental hospital. Walking among the bushes and the statues were a few older Reagans, their skin sagging, their eyes surrounded by wrinkles. Some were in bathrobes, others were in suits with key details off—a tie sloppily tied, a jacket misbuttoned. Many were mumbling to themselves, and none seemed to be aware of the others’ presence.

“We’re still not sure just how visible we want this facility to be,” began Thiel, “But—”

“What’s wrong with that one? Oh my God,” exclaimed Dern. “Stop the jeep!”

She jumped nimbly from the seat before the jeep stopped, and a shrill alarm sounded from the dashboard. Thiel slapped a button to stop it, then snapped, “What the fuck is she doing?”

“She’s a doctor, so, I guess, fulfilling her oath to heal the sick and needy?” Ian said sarcastically over his shoulder as he followed Dern through a gap in the fence into the garden.

By the time Grant and Thiel had gotten the jeep to a full stop and joined them, Dern was already kneeling beside a fallen Reagan, more withered than the others, his face sagging so much it look as if it were melting. Drool leaked from his mouth and from the smell he had clearly soiled his American-flag themed pajama bottoms. “He needs some medical attention,” Dern said, turning to Thiel.

“Do you know what it would cost to give all of these guys end-of-life care? That’d cut into the profit margin pretty bad, and honestly, it’s not gonna be that high to begin with.” Thiel looked away from the dying Reagan and sucked his teeth. “I’m thinking maybe we should keep this facility off the tour. Make it strictly a staff thing. If we redirect the route…”

“You’ve got worse problems,” called Ian from behind a bush. “I thought these things don’t reproduce.”

“They don’t,” replied Thiel automatically. “How can they—oh.”

Thiel rounded the corner to see Ian crouched over a clutch of eggs, each about as big as a regulation-sized football, each clearly heavy with something inside them. One egg was broken, and crawling away from the shards was a tiny human baby, still wet from its emergence but already in possession of a 1940s-movie-star pompadour.

“Oh,” said Thiel. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” said Ian. “Shit is about right.”

“We better cut this short anyway,” said Grant, who had glanced away from the eggs and the baby Reagan out of disgust, or maybe just out of wanting to stop looking at something he didn’t understand. “Storm’s coming.”

It was true—on the horizon, but coming fast, almost impossibly fast, was a dark, dark cloud, roiling and heaving and building as it sped towards the island. It already looked big, and was getting bigger.

“Shit,” Thiel said again.

Please don’t sell Reagan’s blood.

@HCheadle