by Rysa Walker
CLONES
The Anthology
CLONES: The Anthology Copyright © 2016 by Daniel Arthur Smith and Holt Smith Limited. All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact [email protected]
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
For Susan, Tristan, & Oliver, as all things are.
Collection Copyright © 2016 by Daniel Arthur Smith and Holt Smith Limited.
“The Replacement Husband” by Nathan M. Beauchamp Copyright © 2016 Nathan M. Beauchamp. Used by permission of the author.
“Like No Other” Copyright © 2016 by Daniel Arthur Smith. Used by permission of the author.
“Awakening” by Susan Kaye Quinn Copyright © 2016 Susan Kaye Quinn. Used by permission of the author.
“Eve’s Children” by Hank Garner Copyright © 2016 Hank Garner. Used by permission of the author.
“Black Site” by Michael Patrick Hicks Copyright © 2016 Michael Patrick Hicks. Used by permission of the author.
“Fahrenheit 1451” by Samuel Peralta Copyright © 2016 Samuel Peralta. Used by permission of the author.
“All These Bodies” by P.K. Tyler Copyright © 2016 P.K. Tyler. Used by permission of the author.
“B.E.G.I.N.” by R.D. Brady Copyright © 2016 R.D. Brady. Used by permission of the author.
“Splinter” by Rysa Walker Copyright © 2016 Rysa Walker. Used by permission of the author.
“The Vandal” by Joshua Ingle Copyright © 2016 Joshua Ingle. Used by permission of the author.
“Confessional” by Daniel Arthur Smith Copyright © 2016 Daniel Arthur Smith. Used by permission of the author.
All other text Copyright © 2016 Daniel Arthur Smith.
First Edition
Formatting by Daniel Arthur Smith
Cover Design by Ben Adams
Edited by Jessica West
https://west1jessedits.com/
Published by Holt Smith Limited
~*~
Story Synopses
~*~
“The Replacement Husband” (Nathan M. Beauchamp) Jasmine’s husband died in a tragic accident fifteen months ago. Now, she’s about to meet his replacement: a clone of the man she loved for a decade. However, the replacement husband can only remember the last three years of their life together. He has no memory of something so personal, so crucial, that Jasmine struggles to accept him back into her life. However, her husband might not be the only one with a less-than-perfect memory…
“Like No Other” (Daniel Arthur Smith) A young girl learns of the prejudice and consequences of a polarized society.
“Awakening” (Susan Kaye Quinn) Sister Amara prays she won’t be the last of the twelve sisters to reach her awakening—after all, the salvation of their Masters depends on them. But with the interrogations growing more deadly, being last may be best… especially when you’ve been created to touch the face of God.
“Eve’s Children” (Hank Garner) Eve’s Children explores the intersection of faith and science, investigation and belief. Dr. Lexi Danvers is about to unveil the culmination of years of research into our origins, but some will stop at nothing to preserve the status quo.
“Black Site” (Michael Patrick Hicks) For fans of H.P. Lovecraft and Alien comes a new work of cosmic terror!
Inside an abandoned mining station, in the depths of space, a team of scientists seek to unravel the secrets of humanity’s origin. Using cutting-edge genetic cloning experiments, their discoveries take them down an unimaginable and frightening path as their latest creation proves to be more than they bargained for.
“Fahrenheit 1451” (Samuel Peralta) When a human being has been tested through more fires than can be numbered, at what temperature will they finally burn? One man is about to find out.
“All These Bodies” (P.K. Tyler) When an incomplete clone host body becomes conscious, the Mezna plans for its race take a radical turn.
“B.E.G.I.N.” (R.D. Brady) In 1988, Project B.E.G.I.N. (Biological Experiment of Genetic Interaction Nexus) was developed in response to the increasing alien presence in US air space. Dr. Alice Leander, though, is beginning to have doubts leading her to question just who it is she answers to: her conscience or her government?
“Splinter” (Rysa Walker) A familiar blip of green light in the corner of his room has Kiernan Dunne hoping the new arrival is Kate, so that he can abandon the rescue he’s planning. But the time traveler who just blinked in is a future version of Kiernan, and judging from the number scrawled on his forehead, he’s not the only copy.
“The Vandal” (Joshua Ingle) Chase and Alice are awoken by a break-in at 2:08 a.m., and must confront the intruder who is vandalizing their home—an intruder whose face is all too familiar…
“Confessional” (Daniel Arthur Smith) Confessional is based on role-playing game I used to play that you could not win. We named the game Paranoia. Your character lives in a utopian clone society run by Mother. An omniscient AI. This would be great except the Mother is insane. The city is falling apart and even to mention that is an act of treason. The verdict is always guilty and the sentence is always the same—termination. Followed by rebirth. A lot of Moms are a little crazy. What if yours ran the world?
~*~
Contents
“Confessional Part I”
“The Replacement Husband” (Nathan M. Beauchamp)
“Like No Other” (Daniel Arthur Smith)
“Awakening” (Susan Kaye Quinn)
“Eve’s Children” (Hank Garner)
“Black Site” (Michael Patrick Hicks)
“Fahrenheit 1451” (Samuel Peralta)
“Confessional Part II”
“All These Bodies” (P.K. Tyler)
“B.E.G.I.N.” (R.D. Brady)
“Splinter” (Rysa Walker)
“The Vandal” (Joshua Ingle)
“Confessional Part III”
A Note to Readers
~*~
Confessional Part I
~*~
In his hand, Eli held a square piece of metal that a second before had been the interior latch to the citizen confessional. Eli had barely touched the handle, had not even yet pulled back, not really. Mother had not said anything about the latch, yet. Mother would, and there was only one punishment. His throat tightened. Mother had offered him a beverage and he had declined. He wished he had said yes, except he had not said yes during his last confession. Change was bad, maybe. No one ever really had a chance to report what exactly went wrong at the time of punishment. The reset point was at the start of confessional. He wondered if he had gulped when his throat went dry, and, if he did, had mother taken note. Maybe if he glanced up he could see. Not a good idea. Maybe Mother had not seen the latch. Slowly he twisted his hand toward the floor, while at the same time sliding the metal deep into the cup of his hand.
Okay, not so hard.
Eli lifted his eyes from his hand to the mirror. Silently
he watched the beads of sweat across his forehead gather, one to the other, another, and then trickle. A large salty droplet ran into the corner of his eye. He winced.
“Citizen Eli-4271,” Mother said abruptly. “I detect erratic eye movement.” The feminine voice wrapped him, so gentle, sweet, so helpful, and nurturing, so deceiving, the mother of the people. A lot of Moms are a little crazy. Mother ran the world.
“Is there a reason for this behavior?”
Thoughts flooded Eli’s mind. A pause was bad. “Sweat, Mother. It’s only sweat.”
“Why are you sweating? Did you do something wrong?”
“No, Mother. The temperature in the confessional is making me sweat.”
Mother did not answer right away. Breathing became tough and he wondered if she shut off the air and if that was the punishment. His breaths became shorter, faster, his chest tighter.
“Relax,” said Mother. “You are going to hyperventilate.”
There was air, he was breathing. He was making himself sick.
“Yes. Of course, Mother.”
“I have thought about what you said.”
“What’s that, Mother?”
“The temperature in the confessional is making you sweat.”
“Yes. I am very hot.” To punctuate his statement, another stream of sweat ran from his hair down the side of his face.
“That is not why I thought about what you said.”
“The confessional becomes hot the longer a human is inside.”
“Citizen Eli-4271, you did not leave after your confession.”
“No.”
“You did something wrong.”
“No, Mother.”
“That is twice.”
“Twice. I don’t understand.”
“I asked why you were sweating, if you did something wrong. I already knew the correct response. You answered incorrectly, Citizen Eli-4271.”
A recording of his own voice filled the stall, “No, Mother. The temperature in the confessional is making me sweat.”
A sharp pain shot through the side of Eli’s temple. An ache that felt to be buried below the skull, dagger deep, and he wondered if that was how the punishment came.
Mother continued, “An intentionally false statement suggests subterfuge. I will take this time to remind you that the people and the state consider confessions cleansing and you will now be given one chance to redeem yourself. You are not obligated to confess, however failure to redeem yourself will result in immediate conviction as a terrorist and an enemy of the people and the state. In accordance with constitutional variant 93745-3, you will be terminated. Is there anything you would like to confess, Citizen Eli-4271?”
Forgiveness had not crossed his mind. Of course, there would be forgiveness. Nothing really wrong had been done. The handle had broken, not on purpose, not his fault. Eli sucked a nose full of air and then cast out the breath with the proper recitation. “Yes, Mother,” he said. “I confess that today has been good, that the dome is good, and I am a content citizen.”
“Go on,” said Mother.
Eli’s eyes sank back. Mother never said ‘go on’. He was supposed to say the day was good, the city was good, he was content, and that was all until the next daily confession, as long as he was not punished. “I’m sorry, Mother. What do you mean go on?”
“I am detecting an elevated temperature in your left hand.”
Eli was not sure how Mother knew he was holding the handle, yet he was relieved she had at least told him what she wanted to know about. He twisted his wrist up and let his finger fall open. “This is the handle to the door, Mother.” Eli smiled. “Funny thing. The latch broke off in my hand when I tried to leave.”
Mother did not respond. Perhaps she was contacting maintenance. That would be good because that was something he was unable to do. Citizens were not allowed to contact maintenance without submitting a request to Mother. Attempts resulted in punishment.
“Citizen Eli-4271,” Mother finally said.
“Yes?”
“You have confessed that you damaged property of the people and the state.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Citizen Eli-4271. Destruction of property of the people and the state is a terrorist act. You are a terrorist and an enemy of the people and the state. In accordance with constitutional variant 78238-5, you will now be terminated. Do you have any last words for the digital archive?”
“Yes, I do,” said Eli. “This is a mistake, that was an accident.”
“Please relax,” said Mother. “This will be a soothing experience.”
Mother’s soft voice was replaced by a too rapid cadence of smooth jazz, a simple melody that, like everything else in the dome, had begun to malfunction, rushed and looped, a skipping track that played too fast. Da dot da dot, da da do da, da dot da dot, da da do da. Eli’s eyes darted across the top of the stall. “Mother?” he asked. “Mother, what’s happening?” He placed the tip of his index finger into where the handle had been attached and began to vigorously shake his hand, willing the latch to break free. Above his breath, he said, “C’mon, c’mon.” The door did not move, didn’t even tremble with the rhythm of his hand. The dim light of the confessional began to brighten. A million small pins stabbed at his flesh. Eli pleaded, “Please no!” and screamed “No! No!! AAAeeeii…” and then the flash, a brief moment of incredible, horrid ripping.
~*~
The Replacement Husband
Nathan M. Beauchamp
~*~
The replacement husband arrived in a clear, hermetically sealed smartglass canister that looked like a high-tech coffin. Naked except for a pair of white underpants, suction cups dotted his shaved skull and chest. A breathing tube jutted from his mouth. Jasmine studied the thick, wiry hairs bristling from his calves and forearms. She’d never seen him with so much body hair. He’d zapped everything but his pubic area in college, trying to make the Olympic triathlon team. He hadn’t, but she’d fallen in love with the silky smoothness of his dark-skinned body—an unintended side effect.
The technician wheeled the replacement husband to the bedroom like a refrigerator on a dolly. The smartglass displayed his EKG, heartrate, and neural activity. Jasmine stood inside the doorway, fingernails of one hand biting into the palm of the other. Fifteen months had passed since the funeral. Fifteen months of status updates from RevitaLife as they grew the replacement husband in their Detroit laboratory. And now, here he was. In the flesh. Heart thrumming at a steady sixty-seven beats per minute. Closed eyelids shifting as the hidden pupils moved.
“Is he asleep?” Jasmine asked, knowing the answer, but needing some reassurance that this was all really happening.
“Sedated,” the technician said. “Once we get him in position, we’ll rouse him.”
The canister made a distinct fffppp sound—like a fresh tube of tennis balls—when opened. The technicians lowered the replacement husband to the bed, wires linking him to the canister trailing behind.
“Are you sure you don’t want someone with you?”
“I’m fine,” Jasmine lied. She’d refused to accept the Reintegration Specialist offered by RevitaLife. Refused her friends’ pleas to “be there” to welcome Norwood back. Most reintegration processes included close family members, but she and Norwood were both only children. Both sets of parents had passed years ago, leaving her to greet this not-quite-Norwood—far too skinny and with skin as fresh as a baby’s—alone.
She hadn’t known about Norwood’s contract with RevitaLife until the funeral director had asked where she wanted his subdural implant sent for processing. She’d stammered out a What? mind foggy from grief and lack of sleep.
“It’s quite all right,” the director had said, smooth as a television evangelist, all smiles and white teeth. “We can track it down for you. But we should discuss if you want a full funeral, or just a remembrance.”
Three years. He’d had the implant for three years and never told her. In a pre-recorded messa
ge provided by RevitaLife, Norwood had explained that his workplace had paid for a ten-year contract and that he hadn’t wanted to “worry her.” Stupid. As if she were some wilting flower, incapable of handling the implications. She hated him for it even more than for dying. He also promised he’d “be back home soon.”
No, he wouldn’t. Whatever they sent wouldn’t be Norwood. Not the Norwood she’d loved for eleven years. He was gone, incinerated, ashes spread over Lake Michigan where he trained for the swimming portions of his frequent semi-pro triathlons.
“We’re ready,” the technician said.
Jasmine nodded, holding back emotion.
Suction cups, breathing tube, and wires removed, the technician keyed data into a handheld device and, a moment later, the replacement husband’s eyes opened. “Hey, Jazz. You cut your hair?” His words slurred together. “What’s wrong with my tongue?”
It would take time for his muscles to normalize. Electrostim in the growth canister helped develop some musculature, but it couldn’t perfect fine motor control. He’d eat nothing but liquids for the first few weeks while RevitaLife’s physical therapists, cognitive specialists, and memory retrieval experts helped him resume his interrupted life. The serpentine filaments of the implant had spread through his brain while his body grew and would allow near-perfect recall of every second of the last three years of his life. Murky “echoes” of that act of remembering would rise to the surface as well; memories of remembering.
