Death of a Clone

by Alex Thomson

  DISORIENTATED, I MAKE my way to the Rota and I find I’m down for a work shift with Joseph and Juan. We go to East 3 together, but instead of taking Banana off to the depots, I get out with them and patch into the two Jays’ channels, determined to give them a good Marpling.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” I say. “Now just one Ell left. Little me.”

  Not exactly subtle, but how are you supposed to start these casual ‘interrogations’?

  Both Jays stop adjusting their suits and turn to face me. They both make vague muttering noises of assent.

  “Juan, you remember we were talking on the cycle that she died? With Jolly as well.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You were telling me how you’d seen a lot of her in the last few weeks? Probably saw her more than me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So what was her state of mind? What was she talking about?”

  “Um,” Juan says.

  “The thing about Lily,” Joseph says, “was that she was always asking questions.She was convinced that something fishy was going on here. According to Lily, we weren’t getting the whole truth about Mizushima or what we’re doing here.”

  I nod, remembering her in our cabin when I last saw her—something stinks here, Lei.

  “Now, as it happens,” Joseph continues, “I—and my brothers—we agreed with her. But all her questions stirred things up: someone got nervy. Whereas the six of us, we’re biding our time. Waiting until the right moment to strike, and then—”

  He suddenly chops through the vacuum with his glove, and I instinctively step back.

  Juan cuts in on the other channel, and his voice is cold and flinty like swag. “Everything we know—everything—comes filtered through those three men. You see the power they have? Perhaps if they were different men,” he says, “I’d feel more at ease, but… Reynolds: a fool. Ortiz: motivated by naked self-interest. Even Lily’s precious Mr Lee—”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “As your sister told me. Maybe you’re both right. But, behind his preening words… I don’t trust him.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “There are eighteen of us, and three of them,” says Joseph. “When the time is right, we will brush them off like ore dust from our boots. But until them, we wait, we prepare, and we get the information we need.”

  A hundred metres away, two figures appear from the tunnels, dragging trolleys. From their size, they look like Ays. They stop and stare at us, our trio clustered around Banana. I raise a hand in tentative greeting, but they do not respond. Joseph turns his back on me, and heads towards them with bouncing steps. “Stay strong, sister,” his voice says, as his figure retreats.

  Juan grips my arm and squeezes so hard I nearly cry out.

  I’m unsettled, and I sit in Banana for a few minutes, not moving. I’ve never seen any of the Jays like that before, so serious, so intense. It’s kind of attractive.

  I mentally thank Lily for somehow turning the Jays into such loyal allies—though there’s a nagging voice at the back of my head: this could be a textbook gambit, a killer getting close to the detective—hello, Death in the Clouds—pretending to help when in fact they’re getting the juicy inside story on how the investigation is progressing…

  Just the kind of sneaky double-bluff that the chess-playing Jays would appreciate. I can’t trust anyone.

  I glance over towards the Ays, and see they’ve been joined by an Overseer, probably Ortiz, with a stripe down his suit. I mull over what Joseph was saying: eighteen of us, and three of them. I know he’s right, we could take over the asteroid easily. A co-ordinated attack and we’d overwhelm them, tasers or no tasers. A question mark hangs over the Ays: would they take part in any glorious revolution? There’s a danger that they—bovine, incurious—would be resistant to regime change (if that’s not too grand a phrase to describe the situation). I can imagine them choosing to side with the status quo. A scene pops into my head from nowhere—some Jays and some Ays arguing about this very scenario; the Jays urging them on, the Ays in almost-comic horror at the outrage of what they’re suggesting.

  Ah, revolution, revolution. I realise I’ve let myself be dragged along by the fervour of the Jays’ plans and whispers. And yet, despite everything, I don’t even think I could go along with them. Two objections: One, Mr Lee. They have him wrong, and I want to be on his side. Two, the Collection Ship. In six hundred cycles, it is coming, revolution or not. And our passage to Earth depends on there being no bloody revolts or general misbehaviour. Just for a moment, the thought flits across my mind of somehow repelling the Collection Ship, rejecting Earth, setting up our own peaceful little community here on Hell.

  But then I realise what a ridiculous idea that is. For one thing, what would we do? With no Rota or purpose for existence, how would we fill our time, in a way that doesn’t include chipping away at pieces of now-worthless swag?

  We’re in a bind. Hell needs Earth more than Earth needs Hell. And without the Collection Ship, and the crates of swag accumulating in the depot, all we are is a piece of rock floating inconsequentially through space.

  6

  THREE EXHIBITS

  THERE ARE PILES of swag in the ore depot, waiting to be sorted, but frankly, I don’t give a monkey’s (sometimes Mr Lee laughs when I use phrases like that, especially the more colourful ones; I don’t even know what a blooming monkey looks like). Instead, I go to the stores depot, whispering Lily’s numbers to myself as I walk: “Fifty-two, twenty-six.”

  Short of carving Lily’s tally into my skin, it’s the best way to remember. There are only forty rows in our grid, which is how I know 52 must refer to the columns. So I stride up to column 52, past the opened crates and mess, still untouched after three cycles; past the shelves of pipes and hardware and mesh. I turn into the grid and make for row 26, not even having to count now, instinct taking me to the intersection.

  I stop and look around. Nothing’s jumping out at me. I reach out to feel a random crate, but the lid’s seal is tight. What am I supposed to do, Lily, open up every crate in the sector? I slump down on a corner crate, and the lid wobbles…

  Hello.

  I slide the lid off, and immediately it’s clear this is the one I want. It’s half-empty: plastic food pouches packed into the bottom half, and on top of them three items, which I lift out gingerly for inspection.

  Exhibit A: Ashton’s glasses. Boy. That is not what I was expecting to find.

  Exhibit B: A torn half-page of the Rota, nothing remarkable about it at first glance; looks like any other page of the Rota, except that it’s torn in half (sacrilege!) A gimp like Mr Ortiz would probably be able to take one look and tell me its significance, but I’m stumped. I take a quick look at what Lily was scheduled to do during the five cycles covered by the page, and what I was scheduled to do, but… nothing of particular interest.

  Exhibit C: A small photograph, just a few inches high and wide, of a woman. The acetate is creased, and one corner is folded over. The colour is faded, and it looks as though it’s been fingered a lot. Exhibits A and B, I know where they’re from, even if I don’t get their meaning yet. But this—what was Lily doing with a photograph of what appears to be a woman from Earth? Presumably, it belongs to one of the Overseers. I can’t think how else it got here.

  She is… beautiful.

  I thought the Bees were beautiful, but this woman is something else. Perfectly symmetric face, laughter lines circling her eyes, epic cheek bones. I get it now, when you read about beauty in books, and the lengths some men go to for it. It’s not posed, the photo, but looks as though she’s seated somewhere, holding a mug with a garish logo. She doesn’t seem to be aware she’s being photographed—or if she is, she’s acting as though she’s not.

  I rummage around the rest of the pouches, but they are packed tight, and that, it seems, is that. Lily’s little treasure trove. What was she collecting them for? The thought occurs to me that those three little items may have somehow contri
buted to her death, and I feel sick in my gut.

  There is nothing more to be done for the moment. I decide that the glasses and photo are safest here—there’s nothing more they can tell me if I take them to the base. The Rota half-page, however, I take with me—a bit of study might wrinkle out its secret. I fold it and re-fold and secrete it within my suit, then seal the crate and exit the stores depot, leaving behind the mess and the unsorted swag. Banana is waiting, and another sluggish sunrise is taking place ahead, to announce a new cycle. It’s time to talk to Mr Lee.

  BACK AT THE base, I knock on his door without checking the Rota. He’s less sociable than the other two Overseers, and often to be found in his cabin. The sound of shuffling and cursing, then: “Who is it?”

  “Leila.”

  He comes to the door, and I see I’ve woken him, but he doesn’t seem bothered. “Can’t sleep,” he says. “Come in.”

  He takes two sachets and prepares some tea. It is odourless and bland, even by Hell’s standards, but I accept it, as I know he likes it.

  “So,” he says, “how’s the investigation coming along?”

  He makes no mention of the fact I should be working at the depots right now, but whether out of ignorance or sympathy I don’t know. I sip my tea and tell him about my conversations with Mr Ortiz, Mr Reynolds and the Jays. I make no mention of Lily’s message, or the three items she hid in a crate. Why, I’m not quite sure; maybe part of my brain has let Juan’s hints about Mr Lee worm their way in. But also I feel like this is just mine, the only thing I’ve got left of my sister. And until I’ve figured out what it means, I’m not sharing it with anyone. (Of course, it could mean Lily’s a raving kleptomaniac. Every missing chisel, trinket and spoon from the last couple of orbits could be hidden away in assorted crates. I hope it’s not that.)

  Mr Lee asks the right questions, makes the right noises.

  “What have Mr Reynolds and Mr Ortiz said?” I ask.

  He gives a tight smile. “All of the Overseers support you and want you to get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’m not sure Mr Ortiz does,” I say.

  “Don’t you worry about Mr Ortiz. His bark is worse than his bite.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m sure of it. So who next? You’re going to talk to the Ays and the Bees?”

  I nod. “Before that, though, can I ask you a few things?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “So… do you remember driving back to base with Lily, the cycle before she died?”

  “Yup. With Beatrice and… a couple of Jays, I think.”

  “Right. So, did you see her again, or was that the last time?”

  “The last time. I went back to my cabin, exhausted, slept for eight hours straight. Then I was up writing and reading in my cabin, until you came to me.”

  “Okay. And how did she seem in the jeep? Did you talk to her?”

  “Yes, she was… full of energy, buzzing with questions and ideas.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, out of nowhere, she kept asking me about Overseer Fedorchuk, and how he died, and whether or not the Jays had liked him. She was trying to get me to say if I thought they’d killed him. All this, mind you, with two Jays sitting next to me in the jeep.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “It was… a long time ago. Very early days on the colony. He just got sick, and a few cycles later, he was dead. Back on Earth, he would have gone straight to a doctor, and I’m sure they would have fixed him up in no time. Here, we don’t have that luxury.”

  “But the Jays are programmed with medical knowledge, aren’t they?”

  “They are,” he admits. “But only at a basic level. Perhaps they could have done more—but nothing could have been proved. I was busy at the time, not involved—all I know is that none of the Jays had been able to figure out what was wrong. Sometimes, you’re just sick, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “So you told Lily all this?”

  “Yup. I was hoping to steer her away, telling her it was a non-story, but… you know Lily. Well, you know you. She wanted to find out more.”

  “Is there any way someone in the jeep could have been listening in? Joseph or Jupiter? Or Beatrice?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t hear another channel cutting in, but then I wasn’t listening for it.”

  “Okay—fast forward to when you’re in your cabin afterwards. Do you remember hearing anyone walk past your door to the airlock?”

  “I do remember hearing footsteps going past, but no voices.”

  “When was this?”

  “Quite late on—just a few hours before you came to me.”

  Interesting. Very interesting. I wish I had my diorama now. Bloody Jays and their chess.

  “The bugger here,” I say to Mr Lee, “is proving anything. I mean, suppose I figure out who killed her. But how to prove it, when everyone has a ready-made alibi? Okay—not you Overseers—but the rest, they can all get a brother or sister to say they were with them, any time they want.”

  “Right,” says Mr Lee, “but you’ve got to think of motive, means, opportunity. If you can’t prove means or opportunity, you’ve got to focus on motive. Figure that out, then…”

  “Then what? The classic gambit—trick them into making a confession?”

  “Could do. Or just confront them. See what happens.”

  We sit in silence for a while.

  “Do you know if Lily was sleeping with any of the Jays?” I ask. “We saw each other so on-and-off—it would have been easy for her to do it without me knowing.”

  “Possible. There’s a programmed attraction between Jays and Ells. If it wasn’t for the… imbalance, you would have all paired off at the start. What makes you ask?”

  I tell him about the crying Jay at Lily’s funeral. “Part of me thinks he could help me. He’ll want to find Lily’s killer too, right? But then Mr Ortiz reckons that makes them a suspect, that sex is at the root of all murders.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What do you think, should I trust them?”

  Mr Lee looks at me carefully, does that little tic where he scratches below his ear. “If you’re right, and a Jay was having a relationship with Lily, then I think we can trust him to want to find the killer, as much as we do. But that doesn’t rule out a different Jay killing her, as a result of the relationship. And regardless, don’t forget one thing—the Jays are in it for the Jays. They’ll do what’s best for them—and to hell with the consequences.”

  NORMALLY I’M DOG-TIRED after a shift and fall asleep straightaway, but I didn’t do much work (beyond Marpling away and hunting for clues). So I’m still awake. And it’s these times, when I can’t sleep, that I get rare memories of the early cycles floating through my mind. There’s a dull throb in my head, but I don’t mind—I ignore it and enjoy the memory.

  We were in the Community cabin—me, Barbara, Bess, Andy and Avery, this must have been before his burial under a pile of ore. I had heard raised voices and wandered in to see what was happening (I mean, I’m not nosy, but do you have any idea how little goes on in this place?).

  Barbara and Bess were together, Barbara perched on the arm of Bess’ chair. Andy and Avery were standing, arguing.

  “You must have known!” Avery was saying. “You’re not stupid, you knew it wasn’t her!”

  They were right in each other’s faces, it was fascinating—you don’t often get such direct confrontations in our community. Pretty quickly, I picked up the gist of the argument: that Andy had slept with Barbara, who was Avery’s girl. According to Andy, unwittingly; he claimed he had thought it was Betty, his girl, and that Barbara had deceived him. Avery, from the look on his face, remained sceptical.

  Barbara, of course, was watching all this posturing with a sideways smile. The Ays weren’t really paying her or Bess any attention.

  So, you know, not the most original story of all time. But hey, it was a little piece of drama for our small colony, and I
’m sure I later dissected it gleefully with Lily. As I remember, it didn’t actually explode into a full fight—but they were squaring up to each other, and if one had crossed a line and manhandled his brother, it would have degenerated into a brawl.

  I think it just fizzled out—I can remember Avery making a tcha noise of disgust, shoving past Andy and storming out without a glance at the Bees. Andy made a vague, exasperated what-is-his-problem? gesture at the cabin, and then went next door to the Leisure cabin.

  What did I do then? It would have been too awkward, surely, to talk to the Bees about what just happened—or to talk about anything else, as though nothing had happened. Surely? I mean, social conventions are pretty slapdash here on Hell, but there are some instincts you just can’t ignore.

  I probably gave the Bees an embarrassed look, eyebrows raised, and backed out of the Community cabin. Probably. The memory doesn’t go on that far, anyway. But it’s a good memory, the details are clear, and seeing Avery again is an unexpected bonus. When I get a memory like that, I like to hoard it and polish it like a precious gemstone. And I’ll revisit it again and again, until I’m not remembering the memory, but the narrative I’ve told myself of the memory. Does that make sense? Like when I’ve read a good book, and I’ll give Mr Lee the gist of the story. And it stops being the story and becomes my story.

  I NEED TO interview the Bees. As it happens, they come to me. I am in my cabin, three hours before my next shift, when Brenda’s head pokes around the door.

  “Leila,” she says. “When are you going to talk to us?”

  “What do you—?”

  “Everyone’s talking about it. How you’re going round grilling the whole colony. But you haven’t done any of us yet.”

  “Well—would now be okay?”

  “Of course—we’re waiting for you in our cabin.”