Clone Two

by Patti Larsen

  Beckett's fast and has a bit of a head start, but it's not long before I catch up with him. Just in time to see his posture stiffen, an arrow already on the string as he pulls back, aiming carefully before letting fly. The solid thunk of the weapon hitting its target followed by a heavier, deeper thud brings me running.

  I find him crouched over the body of a deer, a large male with a spreading rack of antlers. Blood rushes from around the hole his arrow made as the creature's hooves patter against the ground for a moment before it falls still. Beckett jerks the arrow free without a moment's hesitation or a flicker of compassion, wiping it on the grass.

  A terrible sorrow surges in me. He's killed this creature without thought, not considering what I'm only really beginning to believe. That the large mammal most likely survived his own version of the Sick and was aware, intelligent and as near to human as the dog. Why did I not say something before? He needs to know what he's done.

  Beckett looks up, startled as I join him, my hands running over the soft coat of the dead buck. Bile rises in my throat, the end of so noble and majestic a creature clenching my body into a tight knot as the tingle surges to the surface.

  The deer twitches, eyes blinking. He sits up, shaking his great head, gaze meeting mine for a moment. He tries to rise, as though still weak from his revival. A moment of real connection passes between us, an instant of recognition as he understands I'm not his enemy and I see the beauty and brilliance in him.

  I reach out to stroke his face, tears again wetting my cheeks.

  Only to choke a cry of absolute loss as Beckett strikes out, the arrow driving through the large, gentle eye of the beast, penetrating through into his brain. The deer thrashes, head tossing backward, flinging Beckett to the ground before it convulses once and dies for the second time.

  I collapse to my knees, sobbing into my hands, only to have Beckett grab my arms and pull me up to face him. He shakes me, violently, my head whipping forward and back, rage twisting his features.

  “What is wrong with you?” He shoves me back, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand where a spray of fluid and blood from the buck's eye paints his skin.

  “You...” I gasp for air, trying to find a way to make him understand what he's done, the life he's taken, the intelligence he's ended, but words won't come and I struggle to find even the most rudimentary language to describe my grief. “You killed it.”

  I simply can't muster anything else.

  “Yes, Trio,” he shouts at me, “I killed it.” Beckett's whole body shakes, like a dog shedding water. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less angry. “You need to screw your head on straight.” He half turns from me. “I've seen you kill, fight like a demon possessed, all without a moment of emotion. You're a killing machine, Trio.” Beckett stares down at the deer. “But I can't hunt for fresh meat?” Blue eyes lift to mine. “You're putting us all at risk, you know that, don't you? You need to figure out some priorities that make sense.”

  “I have priorities.” My own anger surfaces and I welcome it. “But I don't kill for the sake of killing, Beckett, not ever.” Not yet, my mind whispers to me. “Only to defend myself and those I care about. You killed to kill.”

  “No,” he shakes his head, “I killed for survival. It's the same damned thing.”

  “It's not.” Grief cramps my stomach, forces me to bend over while more tears escape and my anger fades. “He did nothing to you. We have plenty of food. You didn't need to kill him.”

  “It.” Beckett's voice grates in my ears. “It's an animal, Trio. A stupid animal.”

  The dog chuffs beside me and I'm as offended as he is.

  “You're certain of that?” Beckett flinches and I see guilt in his eyes as they flicker over the dog. “Absolutely certain? Because I know what I saw in his eyes just before you murdered him.” I jab a finger at the buck, shaking so hard my teeth chatter. “I saw a living creature who would never harm you die because you wanted fresh meat you didn't need.”

  Beckett glares at me like this is all my fault. “It's dead,” he says, voice flat and cold. “And I'm hungry.”

  I can't answer, don't have anything to say, not while he bends with a knife in his hand and begins to cut the creature open in short, savage jerks. Speechless and empty, unable to believe my Beckett could be such a savage, that he refuses to see the truth in favor of his own need, I stagger away from him, soul aching for his lack of empathy and the poor dead deer.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty

  I listen to them celebrating, laughing. Smell the stench of cooking flesh on the fire and know I will never eat meat again. I can't get the buck's face out of my head, the way his liquid brown eye met mine, the connection I felt to him. How I knew if I could only have enough time I could find a way to speak his language, to understand the changes done to him and his kind by the Sick. Could he have been as smart as the dog? It's quite likely, if the herd of horses who followed the train are any indicator. And the puppies already show their own form of intelligence.

  It's not a unique phenomenon. I'm positive of it.

  My mind tells me the crew and my friends eat something sentient, self-aware and are enjoying every minute of it.

  And yet, Beckett is correct. Why was I designed to fight, to kill, only to regret the loss of a simple creature, changed or not? I find it so simple to destroy those who attack me, so straight forward to end the lives of those who threaten those I care about. I have no sympathy really for the Crawlers I killed, those who died from my version of the Sick. Yes, I felt a pang of guilt at the time, but more so because of confusion and concern about what I was able to do and less for their deaths.

  Who am I and why am I this way? I'm a clone. Does that mean I was made, a construct? If so, why make me a ruthless killer if only to grant me a soul to regret death?

  Maybe the ones who created me made me wrong. I think back to my waking, in the school bathroom. How disappointed the man in the hologram seemed. Am I flawed? The way the calm tries to consume me... is that my natural state, where I'm heading once and for all? I shudder, unable to comprehend and not wanting to live if that is the person—no, the machine—I'm destined to become.

  All life is precious. Who said that to me and when? I've heard it before, I know the expression very well. The moment I focus, a memory surfaces. I'm standing in the lab, the one I remember, but I'm small, younger than Poppy, smaller too. The woman, is she my mother? She stands beside me, the older man looking angry.

  He's holding a baby in his hands.

  My heart jerks me free of the image, but I need to be relentless. To understand this. Maybe it will help me also understand who I am and what I'm really for.

  I'm small, can just see over the counter's height to where the baby lies on a clear plastic tray. It's deformed, face and skull misshapen, little limbs twisted, belly distended outward as though a balloon hides inside. It's dead, I know it, no life inside it, body still and cooling where it rests on the sterile strip of gauze at the bottom of the container.

  I'm not supposed to be here. A little thrill of fear almost drives me away as I grip the edge of the smooth black counter with both hands, nose over the edge, eyes locked on the silent infant. I know he'll yell at me, he always does, then call for her to take me away. He doesn't like us very much, calls us Clone though she has names for us.

  What is my name? I can't remember.

  My fingers tingle. I know the sensation. It's been growing inside me for a while. Inside all three of us, in fact, though I'm not concerned by it. The tingle makes him excited, but her sad, when we tell them what we're feeling. They don't know everything I can do with the tingle yet, have no idea I found a dead butterfly on my windowsill only this morning and, with a simple touch, sent that butterfly off and away again, life once more beating in its little heart.

  My fear of him fades as my soul lifts. There's so much I can do. I want to do. Maybe I can prove to him I'm really a good girl after all, a good clone. Give
him what he wants and make him smile instead of frown at me all the time. Yes, this is perfect. Not only can I make him smile, I can return things to the way they should be.

  I reach out, stroke the baby's face, feel the tingle pass between us in a moment of bliss.

  It wakes, one usable eye opening, meeting mine, a single breath drawn into its tiny lungs, right hand, the only one formed perfectly, making a defiant fist. I've done it, it's alive and I did this. I made it live.

  One breath. The baby dies again, life fading as quickly as it returned.

  Her hands settle on my shoulders, lips on my cheek. “Oh my kitten,” she whispers. “You shouldn't be here.”

  He is with her, shouting at her to get me out of the lab until she glares at him.

  “You did see what she just accomplished.”

  Her words silence him. Is there fear in his old face?

  She turns me toward her, lifts me into her arms until her nose is on level with mine.

  “All life is precious,” she says, “but, my sweet girl, you must learn which lives are worth saving.”

  It's the most complete memory I've ever had and while I'm weeping from it, from the sadness of the dying baby, I'm crying more for the relief of remembering.

  Try as I might in the next little while, as I sit there and scour the dark, blank wall between me and my past for any sign of breaking through, it's the only part of my past I'm able to recover. But now I have hope. With time, maybe I'll figure things out after all.

  I remain there, head down, digging into my mind as it resists me still, hugging the thought of her and the feeling of her love. Soft paws make little noise on the ground, but it's enough to bring my chin up. The dog stops at my side, tail low but wagging, his own head hanging. A bone is clenched between his jaws, the thud of it dropping at my feet louder than I expected.

  I reach out for him, stroke his fur while he licks his chops.

  “It's okay,” I say. “You understand, don't you?”

  His head slowly bobs before he whines softly and looks down at the bone again. Is he asking my permission? It's not fair of me to punish him as I punish myself. I realize the same is true of Beckett. How was he to know? And I treated him so horribly, handled the whole thing the wrong way, how I handle everything it seems. Badly.

  My crippled heart relents at last. I press my lips to the dog's forehead before smiling at him. “You earned that.”

  He settles next to me, gnawing happily on his treat while I try to come to terms with what I now know.

  I am a weapon. I was made, perhaps not specifically for that purpose, but with the ability to kill, more than kill. To destroy others utterly. But now I know as well, there was no urgency to my creation. Vander's suggestion this is some big experiment makes me pause. If I'm a test, some kind of lab rat let out of her cage, am I a mistake?

  No, I don't believe that. The woman wouldn't have sent me to this place if I were.

  So why then am I here?

  ***

  Chapter Twenty One

  It's not long before a shadow falls over me and I realize the dog isn't my only visitor. I look up and manage a real smile for Beckett. His own face is creased with regret, shoulders hunched, one hand shoved deep into the front pocket of his pants, the other hiding behind his back as if he's afraid to show me what he's holding.

  “Trio.” He hesitates, sighs. “I'm sorry.”

  I pat the log I sit on, an invitation he accepts even as he relents, hand coming forward. He bends and hands the dog a second bone, this one red with extra flesh. The golden lab takes it with great grace before switching to the meatier offering. I avert my eyes, more interested on focusing elsewhere anyway.

  “I shouldn't have yelled at you.” He looks away, hands clenched in his lap. “It's not your fault.”

  So much pain, so much need to protect. Again, I have the feeling I've known Beckett before and I wonder. Is he like me? I know he isn't. He’s shown no sign of being anything but normal. And yet, if that's the case, how do I know he has a birthmark on his right shoulder, just below the collar bone, that the only hair on his chest is a thin, dark line running from his belly button down into his belt line? That one of his feet is flat.

  How do I know?

  I reach for him, unable to resist, sliding my arms around him even as his lift to hug me. His skin is hot under mine as I press my face against his neck and breathe in his scent.

  “I'm sorry too,” I say. “I wish I could remember.”

  “And I wish I understood.” He sighs, chest heaving, the sound of his heart in my ear. “What's your real reason for being here? Is Vander right?” One hand rises to push my hair back, his cheek resting on the top of my head as if sitting here with me like this is the most natural thing in the world. And it is, it really is. “How can you be who you are and do what you do, but still be so human?”

  “I remembered something,” I whisper against his skin. “A lab. I was created, Beckett.” I hate pulling back from him, but I need to see his eyes. They don't judge me, only watch, open and questioning. “It's as if I've been programmed to protect myself if I'm in danger.” Yes, that feels right. “But I can't stand the idea of death, not unless I'm threatened.” A flaw in my programming? Or a part of her left in me? I sigh. “Things would be so much easier if I just knew what I'm meant to do.”

  Beckett's lips meet mine before I know he's moving. It's the first time he's done so since his birthday, the day we hid in Vander's home. And as much as he tastes like death, the flavor of cooked blood and the flesh of the deer clinging to his tongue, I embrace him, arms around his neck, my mouth as eager as his, the heat of his body, the scent of him like a craving I've been fighting and no longer have to.

  Someone laughs, so loud Beckett pulls back, looks over at the fire. It's Brick, but he's not looking our way. Still, the moment is broken. This time when Beckett looks back at me, he's troubled but not unhappy.

  He squeezes my hand for a moment, presses a gentle kiss to my forehead and leaves me there, body aching for him.

  He vanishes from sight, but the light of the fire beckons me, the aroma of roasting flesh long gone. I join the others at last, the dog ever at my side and find a place next to Socrates. It's time I asked some questions about my golden furred friend.

  Socrates looks up at me, grins. “You missed dinner.”

  I feel my stomach roll over, but smile back, knowing then Beckett kept our argument to himself. “I have something to ask you. About the animals.”

  His dark eyes fall on the dog as the golden lab flops down next to me.

  “He is unusual, isn't he?” Socrates sighs, shrugs. “I don't know if the Sick attacks animals, too, if that's what you're wondering. Aside from the puppies and him, this is the most time I've spent with anything but people. Taking care of animals, having pets, isn't exactly a priority, considering.”

  I nod. “I know,” I say. “So you haven't heard anything?”

  “There was a cat,” Vander says softly from the other side of Socrates, voice low as if he doesn't want anyone else to hear. “Gault and I took her in. She was sweet, and seemed very smart for an animal. There were times I was sure she was trying to talk to me.”

  “What happened to her?” I lean closer.

  “She died,” he smiles sadly at me. “Of old age. Happy and fat. We both loved her, Gault most of all.”

  I take his hand and squeeze it, reaching over Socrates to do so.

  “And you never thought anything of it?” When I lean back, I find the dog eyeing me as if he's listening.

  I know he's listening.

  “What difference does it make, ultimately?” Socrates tosses a chunk of wood into the fire. “Smart or not, if they have caught the Sick, there's nothing we can do about it.”

  I sit back, one hand in the dog's thick coat and tell them about the horses. Socrates grunts like I'm wasting his time but Vander smiles at me.

  “I would have loved to have seen them,” he says.

  Socr
ates rolls his eyes. “We have enough problems of our own.” That petulant grumble doesn't sound like him but when he crosses his arms over his chest in a little-old man grump, I see his eyes flicker to the remains of the roasting deer sitting near the fire and suddenly know he's as disgusted by the thought of eating an intelligent animal as I am.

  The Howls, the Brights, the Shambles—all cannibals. Does devouring the flesh of creatures newly intelligent and aware make us as bad as those damaged by the Sick?

  It's not fair of me to torture my young friend this way.

  “Doesn't matter, really,” I say with a gentle smile. “Just wondering.”

  Socrates relaxes, a flicker of guilt telling me he'll likely avoid eating fresh meat again.

  The dog simply chuffs softly before closing his eyes.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Everyone seems reluctant to get back on the train, even Chime, but no one complains outwardly when Ande heads for the locomotive and wakes the slumbering engine. Within a very short time we're ready to move on again, the boiler coals still hot enough to stoke some steam.

  Beckett and Vander carry the last packets of cooked meat on board as the train begins to roll, leaving the carcass of the deer behind, bones sharply reflective in the light of the dying fire. I can't look, wish they left the flesh behind, but know I need to hold my tongue and my opinion to myself. If nothing else, the infusion of fresh food has brightened the crew's outlook.

  The first rumble from above startles me with its volume where I sit beside the sleeping Poppy. I sit and listen for more, see the others perk, pay attention. When the rain begins it's the sound of a million hammers hitting the metal, deafening even over the sounds of the train. Poppy wakes, staring up at me while I find myself smiling. I get up, go to the door, slide it open and peer out into the deluge.