Clones

by Gardner Dozois

  "Argentinean. I told you that once, didn't I?"

  "I don't know." After a while the young man added, "I have forgotten a lot of things, I think "

  "It wasn't important, to be sure," Pugh said gently, realizing all at once how important this conversation was. "Will you give me a hand running the computer, Kaph?"

  He nodded.

  Pugh had left a lot of loose ends, and the job took them all day. Kaph was a good co-worker, quick and systematic, much more so than Pugh himself. His flat voice, now that he was talking again, got on the nerves; but it didn't matter, there was only this one day left to get through and then the ship would come, the old crew, comrades and friends.

  During tea break Kaph said, "What will happen if the Explore ship crashes?"

  "They'd be killed."

  "To you, I mean."

  "To us? We'd radio SOS signals and live on half rations till the rescue cruiser from Area Three Base came. Four and a half E-years away it is. We have life support here for three men for, let's see, maybe between four and five years. A bit tight, it would be."

  "Would they send a cruiser for three men?"

  "They would."

  Kaph said no more.

  "Enough cheerful speculations," Pugh said cheerfully, rising to get back to work. He slipped sideways and the chair avoided his hand; he did a sort of half-pirouette and fetched up hard against the dome hide. "My goodness," he said, reverting to his native idiom, "what is it?"

  "Quake," said Kaph.

  The teacups bounced on the table with a plastic cackle, a litter of papers slid off a box, the skin of the dome swelled and sagged. Underfoot there was a huge noise, half sound, half shaking, a subsonic boom.

  Kaph sat unmoved. An earthquake does not frighten a man who died in an earthquake.

  Pugh, white-faced, wiry black hair sticking out, a frightened man, said, "Martin is in the Trench."

  "What trench?"

  "The big fault line. The epicenter for the local quakes. Look at the seismograph." Pugh struggled with the stuck door of a still-jittering locker.

  "Where are you going?"

  "After him."

  "Martin took the jet. Sleds aren't safe to use during quakes. They go out of control."

  "For God's sake man, shut up."

  Kaph stood up, speaking in a flat voice as usual. "It's unnecessary to go out after him now. It's taking an unnecessary risk."

  "If his alarm goes off, radio me," Pugh said, shut the head-piece of his suit, and ran to the lock. As he went out Libra picked up her ragged skirts and danced a belly dance from under his feet clear to the red horizon.

  Inside the dome, Kaph saw the sled go up, tremble like a meteor in the dull red daylight, and vanish to the northeast. The hide of the dome quivered, the earth coughed. A vent south of the dome belched up a slow-flowing bile of black gas.

  A bell shrilled and a red light flashed on the central control board. The sign under the light read Suit 2 and scribbled under that, A. G. M. Kaph did not turn the signal off. He tried to radio Martin, then Pugh, but got no reply from either.

  When the aftershocks decreased he went back to work and finished up Pugh's job. It took him about two hours. Every half hour he tried to contact Suit 1 and got no reply, then Suit 2 and got no reply. The red light had stopped flashing after an hour.

  It was dinnertime. Kaph cooked dinner for one and ate it. He lay down on his cot.

  The aftershocks had ceased except for faint rolling tremors at long intervals. The sun hung in the west, oblate, pale red, immense. It did not sink visibly. There was no sound at all.

  Kaph got up and began to walk about the messy, half-packed-up, overcrowded, empty dome. The silence continued. He went to the player and put on the first tape that came to hand. It was pure music, electronic, without harmonies, without voices. It ended. The silence continued.

  Pugh's uniform tunic, one button missing, hung over a stack of rock samples. Kaph stared at it a while.

  The silence continued.

  The child's dream: There is no one else alive in the world but me. In all the world.

  Low, north of the dome, a meteor flickered.

  Kaph's mouth opened as if he were trying to say something, but no sound came. He went hastily to the north wall and peered out into the gelatinous red light.

  The little star came in and sank. Two figures blurred the airlock. Kaph stood close beside the lock as they came in. Martin's imsuit was covered with some kind of dust so that he looked raddled and warty like the surface of Libra. Pugh had him by the arm.

  "Is he hurt?"

  Pugh shucked his suit, helped Martin peel off his. "Shaken up," he said, curt.

  "A piece of cliff fell onto the jet," Martin said, sitting down at the table and waving his arms. "Not while I was in it though. I was parked, see, and poking about that carbon-dust area when I felt things humping. So I went out onto a nice bit of early igneous I'd noticed from above, good footing and out from under the cliffs. Then I saw this bit of the planet fall off onto the flyer, quite a sight it was, and after a while it occurred to me the spare aircans were in the flyer, so I leaned on the panic button. But I didn't get any radio reception, that's always happening here during quakes, so I didn't know if the signal was getting through either. And things went on jumping around and pieces of the cliff coming off. Little rocks flying around, and so dusty you couldn't see a meter ahead. I was really beginning to wonder what I'd do for breathing in the small hours, you know, when I saw old Owen buzzing up the Trench in all that dust and junk like a big ugly bat—"

  "Want to eat?" said Pugh.

  "Of course I want to eat. How'd you come through the quake here, Kaph? No damage? It wasn't a big one actually, was it, what's the seismo say? My trouble was I was in the middle of it. Old Epicenter Alvaro. Felt like Richter fifteen there—total destruction of planet—"

  "Sit down," Pugh said. "Eat."

  After Martin had eaten a little his spate of talk ran dry. He very soon went off to his cot, still in the remote angle where he had removed it when Pugh complained of his snoring.

  "Good night, you one-lunged Welshman," he said across the dome.

  "Good night."

  There was no more out of Martin. Pugh opaqued the dome, turned the lamp down to a yellow glow less than a candle's light, and sat doing nothing, saying nothing, withdrawn.

  The silence continued.

  "I finished the computations."

  Pugh nodded thanks.

  "The signal from Martin came through, but I couldn't contact you or him."

  Pugh said with effort, "I should not have gone. He had two hours of air left even with only one can. He might have been heading home when I left. This way we were all out of touch with one another. I was scared."

  The silence came back, punctuated now by Martin's long, soft snores.

  "Do you love Martin?"

  Pugh looked up with angry eyes: "Martin is my friend. We've worked together, he's a good man." He stopped. After a while he said, "Yes, I love him. Why did you ask that?"

  Kaph said nothing, but he looked at the other man. His face was changed, as if he were glimpsing something he had not seen before; his voice too was changed. "How can you . . . How do you . . .

  But Pugh could not tell him. "I don't know," he said, "it's practice, partly. I don't know. We're each of us alone, to be sure. What can you do but hold your hand out in the dark?"

  Kaph's strange gaze dropped, burned out by its own intensity.

  "I'm tired," Pugh said. "That was ugly, looking for him in all that black dust and muck, and mouths opening and shutting in the ground. . . . I'm going to bed. The ship will be transmitting to us by six or so." He stood up and stretched.

  "It's a clone," Kaph said. "The other Exploit Team they're bringing with them."

  "Is it then?"

  "A twelveclone. They came out with us on the Passerine."

  Kaph sat in the small yellow aura of the lamp seeming to look past it at what he feared: the new clon
e, the multiple self of which he was not part. A lost piece of a broken set, a fragment, inexpert at solitude, not knowing even how you go about giving love to another individual, now he must face the absolute, closed self-sufficiency of the clone of twelve; that was a lot to ask of the poor fellow, to be sure. Pugh put a hand on his shoulder in passing. "The chief won't ask you to stay here with a clone. You can go home. Or since you're Far Out maybe you'll come on farther out with us. We could use you. No hurry deciding. You'll make out all right."

  Pugh's quiet voice trailed off. He stood unbuttoning his coat, stooped a little with fatigue. Kaph looked at him and saw the thing he had never seen before, saw him: Owen Pugh, the other, the stranger who held his hand out in the dark.

  "Good night," Pugh mumbled, crawling into his sleeping bag and half asleep already, so that he did not hear Kaph reply after a pause, repeating, across darkness, benediction.

  MARY

  Damon Knight

  A multi-talented professional whose career as writer, editor, critic, and anthologist spans almost fifty years, Damon Knight has long been a major shaping force in the development of modern science fiction. He wrote the first important book of SF criticism, In Search of Wonder, and won a Hugo Award for it. He was the founder of the Science Fiction Writers of America, co-founder of the prestigious Milford Writer's Conference, and, with his wife, writer Kate Wilhelm, was involved in the creation of the Clarion workshop for new young writers. He was the editor of Orbit, the longest running original anthology series in the history of American science fiction, and has also produced important works of genre history such as The Futurians and Turning Points, as well as dozens of influential reprint anthologies. Knight has also been highly influential as a writer, and may well be one of the finest short story writers ever to work in the genre. His books include the novels A For Anything, The Other Foot, Hell's Pavement, The Man in the Tree, CV, and A Reasonable World, Why Do Birds, and the collections Rule Golden and Other Stories, Turning On, Far Out, The Best of Damon Knight, and the recent One Side Laughing. His most recent book is the critically acclaimed novel Humptey Dumptey: An Oval.

  Here, in one of the earliest clone stories in SF, from the days before the term "clone" itself was even coined, he brings us a future of quiet voices, cool shadows, shuttered stairwells, boats rocking at mooring, white ceramic islands on a placid blue sea, crystalline music, wine, new cloth. A drowsy civilized afternoon of life, full of pastels and pleasant silences, where all the pieces fit neatly together and everything works smoothly and calmly—except for one piece just a little out of kind . . .

  Thirty sisters, alike as peas, were sitting at their looms in the court above the Gallery of Weavers. In the cool shadow, their white dresses rustled like the stirrings of doves, and their voices now murmured, now shrilled. Over the courtyard was a canopy of green glass, through which the sun appeared to swim like a golden-green fish: but over the roofs could be seen the strong blue of the sky, and even, at one or two places, the piercing white sparkle of the sea.

  The sisters were ivory-skinned, strong-armed and straight of back, with eyebrows arched black over bright eyes. Some had grown fat, some were lean, but the same smiles dimpled their cheeks, the same gestures threw back their sleek heads when they laughed, and each saw herself mirrored in the others.

  Only the youngest, Mary, was different. Hers was the clan face, but so slender and grave that it seemed a stranger's. She had been brought to birth to replace old Anna-one, who had fallen from the lookout and broken her neck sixteen springs ago; and some said it had been done too quick, that Mary was from a bad egg and should never have been let grow. Now the truth was that Mary had in her genes a long-recessive trait of melancholy and unwordliness, turned up by accident in the last cross; but the Elders, who after all knew best, had decided to give her the same chance as anyone. For in the floating island of Iliria, everyone knew that the purpose of life was happiness; and therefore to deprive anyone of life was a great shame.

  At the far side of the court, Vivana called from her loom, "They say a new Fisher came from the mainland yesterday!" She was the eldest of the thirty, a coarse, good-natured woman with a booming laugh. "If he's handsome, I may take him, and give you others a chance at my Tino. Rose, how would you like that? Tino would be a good man for you." Her loom whirled, and rich, dark folds of liase rippled out. It was an artificial fiber, formed, spun, woven and dyed in the loom, hardening as it reached the air. A canister of the stuff, like tinted gelatin, stood at the top of every loom. It came from the Chemist clan, who concocted it by mysterious workings out of the sea water that tumbled through their vats.

  "What, is he tiring of you already?" Rose called back. She was short and moon-faced, with strong, clever fingers that danced on the keyboard of her loom. "Probably you belched in his face once too often." She raised her shrill voice over the laughter. "Now let me tell you, Vivana, if the new Fisher is as handsome as that, I may take him myself, and let you have Mitri." Mounds of apple-green stuff tumbled into the basket at her feet.

  Between them, Mary worked on, eyes cast down, without smiling.

  "Gogo and Vivana!" someone shouted.

  "Yes, that's right—never mind about the Fisher! Gogo and Vivana!" All the sisters were shouting and laughing. But Mary still sat quietly busy at her loom.

  "All right, all right," shouted Vivana, wheezing with laughter. "I will try him, but then who's to have Gunner?" "Me!"

  "No, me!"

  Gunner was the darling of the Weavers, a pink man with thick blond lashes and a roguish grin.

  "No, let the youngsters have a chance," Vivana called reprovingly. "Joking aside, Gunner is too good for you old scows." Ignoring the shrieks of outrage, she went on, "I say let Viola have him. Better yet, wait, I have an idea—how about Mary?"

  The chatter stilled; all eyes turned toward the silent girl where she sat, weaving slow cascades of creamy white liase. She flushed quickly, and bowed her head, unable to speak. She was sixteen, and had never taken a lover.

  The women looked at her, and the pleasure faded out of their faces. Then they turned away, and the shouting began again:

  "Rudi!"

  "Ernestine!"

  "Hugo!"

  "Areta!"

  Mary's slim hands faltered, and the intricate diapered pattern of her weaving was spoiled. Now the bolt would have to be cut off, unfinished. She stopped the loom, and drooped over it, pressing her forehead against the smooth metal. Tears burned her eyelids. But she held herself still, hoping Mia, at the next loom, would not see.

  Below in the street, a sudden tumult went up. Heads turned to listen: there was the wailing of flutes, the thundering of drums, and the sound of men's rich voices, all singing and laughing.

  A gate banged open, and a clatter of feet came tumbling up the stair. The white dresses rustled as the sisters turned expectantly toward the arch.

  A knot of laughing, struggling men burst through, full into the midst of the women, toppling looms, while the sisters shrieked in protest and pleasure.

  The men were Mechanics, dark-haired, gaunt, leavened by a few blond Chemists. They were wrestling, Mechanic against Chemist, arms locked about each other's necks, legs straining for leverage. One struggling pair toppled suddenly, overturning two more. The men scrambled up, laughing, red with exertion.

  Behind them was a solitary figure whose stillness drew Mary's eyes. He was tall, slender and grave, with russet hair and a quiet mouth. While the others shouted and pranced, he stood looking around the courtyard. For an instant his calm gray eyes met hers, and Mary felt a sudden pain at the heart.

  "Dear, what is it?" asked Mia, leaning closer.

  "I think I am ill," said Mary faintly.

  "Oh, not now!" Mia protested.

  Two of the men were wrestling again. A heave, and the dark Mechanic went spinning over the other's hip.

  A shout of applause went up. Through the uproar, Vivana's big voice came booming, "You fishheads, get out! Look at this, half a morn
ing's work ruined! Are you all drunk? Get out!"

  "We're all free for the day!" one of the Mechanics shouted. "You too—the whole district! It's in the Fisher's honor! So come on, what are you waiting for?"

  The women were up, in a sudden flutter of voices and white skirts, the men beginning to spread out among them. The tall man still stood where he was. Now he was looking frankly at Mary, and she turned away in confusion, picking up the botched fabric with hands that did not feel it.

  She was aware that two Mechanics had turned back, were leading the tall man across the courtyard, calling, "Violet—Clara!" She did not move: her breath stopped.

  Then they were pausing before her loom. There was an awful moment when she thought she could not move or breathe. She looked up fearfully. He was standing there, hands in his pockets, slumped a little as he looked down at her.

  He said, "What is your name?" His voice was low and gentle.

  "Mary," she said.

  "Will you go with me today, Mary?"

  Around her, the women's heads were turning. A silence spread; she could sense the waiting, the delight held in check.

  She could not! Her whole soul yearned for it, but she was too afraid, there were too many eyes watching. Miserably, she said, "No," and stopped, astonished, listening to the echo of her voice saying gladly, "Yes!".

  Suddenly her heart grew light as air. She stood, letting the loom fall, and when he held out his hand, hers went into it as if it knew how.

  "So you have a rendezvous with a Mainland Fisher?" the Doctor inquired jovially. He was pale-eyed and merry in his broad brown hat and yellow tunic; he popped open his little bag, took out a pill, handed it to Mary. "Swallow this, dear."

  "What is it for, Doctor?" she asked, flushing.

  "Only a precaution. You wouldn't want a baby to grow right in your belly, would you? Ha, ha, ha! That shocks you, does it? Well, you see, the Mainlanders don't sterilize the males, their clan customs forbid it, so they sterilize the females instead. We have to be watchful, ah, yes, we Doctors! Swallow it down, there's a good girl."

  She took the pill, drank a sip of water from the flask he handed her.