by M A Gelsey
“Clones are expensive — when somebody spends thousands and thousands of dollars to have one made, does that give them the right to treat the clone like their property? The first clones are just now reaching the age of majority. Can they vote? Can they run for office? Could we one day have a clone president?” she yelled, her voice strong and clear. She seemed like a person who was born to lead this kind of rally — something in the way she spoke was stirring, and each time she made a point the protestors who stood listening would verbalize their assent. Many carried signs and wore t-shirts with various slogans like “Clone Rights = Human Rights” and “We Will Not Remain Silent”. Edgar Prime stood in the back of the crowd listening.
The woman finished her speech shortly thereafter, and although Edgar Prime still didn’t quite understand why they were protesting, he felt strangely energized about participating in the next part of the rally. Edgar Prime watched the woman leap down from the bench and followed when she led the way across the square back toward the conference center. Exuberant chatter broke out in the crowd, and the other protestors waved their signs at passing pedestrians and vehicles. They were nonviolent and (for the most part) respectful, milling around on the opposite side of the street as they waited for the conference attendees to exit the building. Edgar Prime slowly edged through the crowd and approached the woman who had been speaking.
“Great speech,” he said when he reached her, and she turned and looked up at him. It only took a split second before he saw recognition in her eyes.
“You’re Edgar Prime,” she said.
“I prefer Ed.” He wasn’t surprised that she’d recognized him.
“Noela Kearney,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Co-Founder and President of the Clone Advocacy Network. CAN for short.”
Edgar Prime shook her hand and she gave him a cordial nod. “I’ve never heard of the Clone Advocacy Network,” he admitted.
“We’ve only been in action for the past year or so,” Noela said. She waved over a man in his early twenties with black eyeliner, black hair, lively brown eyes and deeply tanned skin. Both he and Noela wore dark jeans and black t-shirts that read, “Not For Sale”. The man was shorter than Edgar Prime by several inches and when he spoke, his accent was also American.
Noela made the introductions. “This is Luken Ochoa. We founded CAN together in our last year at Columbia.” No matter what she was talking about, Noela somehow exuded charisma.
“Edgar Prime,” said Luken, also recognizing him on sight.
“He prefers Ed,” Noela told him.
“Nice to meet you Ed,” said Luken, extending his hand as Noela had. “Is it true that Dr. Midas calls you ‘Prime’?”
“Yeah,” Edgar Prime said, taken aback for a moment that he’d know to ask that. Then it occurred to him that Dr. Midas had given hundreds of interviews over the years, and that anyone at all inclined could learn all kinds of things about him; the information was freely available. He tried not to let his discomfort show on his face.
“Can I introduce you to them?” Noela asked suddenly, gesturing toward the crowd. “Don’t worry, I won’t make a big thing of it.” Although the thought made Edgar Prime vaguely nervous, he nodded.
“Everyone!” Noela called, and the other protestors turned to listen. “This is Ed. He is a clone — the first ever human clone. He’s here with us to advocate for basic human rights for others like him.” A whoop went up at this, along with brief cheering. When it subsided, Noela added, “That’s all. I just wanted you all to know — we are doing good and important work and it is not going unnoticed!” Another cheer. Within a few minutes, Edgar Prime found himself facing a small cluster of people close to his age, all vying to introduce themselves first.
“Ed, welcome. I am Jordi —” he was tall, dark, and thin, and spoke with a Catalan accent.
He was elbowed out of the way by two fashionable blonde girls, one of whom said, “I am Madeline and this is Valerie. We are both students at the Sorbonne in Paris. We have read a great deal about —”
She was interrupted again by Jordi who said, “My field of study is Philosophy and Ethics. Do you feel that cloning is ethical?”
“Can we have your autograph, Ed?” asked Valerie. She had a thicker French accent than Madeline.
“Calm down,” Noela cut in sharply. “He’s a person, not a circus freak.”
Madeline, Valerie and Jordi looked chastened, but Luken laughed.
“It’s not so surprising they’re acting like they’ve met a celebrity, Noela,” said Luken. “We’ve all been following Ed’s story for ages, haven’t we? He’s really the only clone we know anything about, and even still it’s indirect knowledge courtesy of the esteemed Dr. Midas.”
The way Luken said Dr. Midas’s name held just the faintest hint of mocking, and Edgar Prime’s mouth twisted involuntarily into a small smile.
“I’m not all that interesting to be honest,” Edgar Prime said. He had never particularly liked being the center of attention.
“Now that I don’t believe,” Jordi said, with an easy grin. “You are undoubtedly more interesting than the rest of us.” Madeline and Valerie both smiled and nodded in agreement.
“And you all — you traveled here for the I.C.G.?” Edgar Prime knew they must have, but he found it hard to comprehend.
“Of course,” Luken said, looking slightly reproachful that Edgar Prime would ask such an obvious question. “Some of us didn’t have far to come, like Jordi, Madeline and Valerie here, but Noela and I knew this was too important an opportunity to miss — all the scientists doing this sort of work in one place, all the press. We had to come to get our message out.”
“And — what message is that, exactly?” Edgar Prime asked them.
“We get confused with the anti-cloning lobby a lot but what we do is totally different,” Noela said. “As an organization, we don’t take sides about the ethics of cloning itself. What we want is for there to be both national and international statutes protecting the rights of clones.”
“What rights?” Edgar Prime asked.
“Because clones are paid for, some people make the mistake of thinking that they’re owned,” Noela said. “They treat their clones like property instead of like autonomous people. Most often they’re purchased to replace someone who’s died, and they don’t get a say in whether they want to fill that person’s role or not. We learned recently that the second clone — the first after you — was created to replace a man’s deceased wife. She was raised by a caretaker and on her eighteenth birthday, the man married her. Do you think she had any choice in the matter?”
Edgar Prime blinked. He hadn’t ever really spared the other clones much thought, but he knew there must be hundreds by now, maybe even thousands. The idea that some of them were trapped in situations far more restrictive than his made Edgar Prime feel ashamed. Yes, his upbringing had been far from traditional, but at least Dr. Midas had given him a lot of independence from an early age. He hadn’t been forced to marry anyone or do anything he didn’t want to, aside from the experiments. Now he was even studying history, bemused though Dr. Midas was with that choice. He’d been so consumed with bitterness at his own lot in life that he hadn’t considered the possibility that he might actually be one of the fortunate ones.
“That’s awful,” he said quietly.
“It is,” Noela agreed. “Which is why we are here with our signs and our bodies, to show the world that not every step forward constitutes progress.”
Edgar Prime nodded, slowly at first then more vigorously. Valerie offered him one of the two signs she carried, and he accepted. The sign was bright green with white lettering that simply read, “Equality For All” with a peace sign beneath it. Edgar Prime lifted it high even though none of the press who had stood fawning around Harlow were outside any longer.
The next two hours passed in a pleasant blur for Edgar Prime. He enjoyed everything about the protestors — their fierce optimism, their mingling languages and accents,
their awareness. By the time the I. C. G. attendees started trickling outside during the lunch break, Edgar Prime was as fired up as he’d ever been his entire life. They all waved their signs and marched and chanted, but barely anyone gave them a second glance.
Still, to Edgar Prime, it was exhilarating. None of the “major players,” as Noela called them, emerged during the lunch break — no doubt they were enjoying an expensive catered meal courtesy of the conference sponsors. Just as people began filing back inside for the afternoon presentations, Edgar Prime received a text from Patrice, asking where he was, to which he replied, ‘outside’.
She came out a couple minutes later, scanning the street with a confused expression on her face. Edgar Prime almost laughed aloud as she looked back and forth, twice glancing towards the protestors without noticing him. When she saw his wave, her eyes widened in surprise and she crossed the street to meet him.
“Come inside, Ed,” she said without preamble.
“I’d rather not,” said Edgar Prime cheerfully. Noela and Luken stood on either side of him, both eyeing Patrice with distrust. “Patrice, I’d like you to meet Noela and Luken, the founders of the Clone Advocacy Network.” Patrice gave them each the briefest of nods, focusing back on Edgar Prime.
“I’m serious, Ed. This isn’t funny anymore. Come inside,” Patrice said.
“He doesn’t have to listen to you,” Noela said loudly.
“Yeah,” Luken said.
Patrice spared them an exasperated glance. “Harlow isn’t happy.”
“Why should I care?” Edgar Prime said, emboldened by his initial rebellion that morning. “You heard them. I don’t have to listen to you.”
“What has gotten into you, Ed?” Patrice asked.
“Harlow is a corporate pig who would happily throw Ed here into a wood chipper if he thought it would make him a bigger profit,” Noela said. She glared at Patrice with open distain now, eyes narrowed, hair wilder than ever, like a fiery halo. Other protestors had noticed the confrontation and were staring now, and Patrice took a step closer to Edgar Prime and spoke to him in an undertone.
“Come on, Ed. Please. I don’t want to get fired over this.” The look on her face was so imploring, Edgar Prime felt himself soften with sympathy, followed by a rush of resentment. He tried for a second to convince himself that Dr. Midas wouldn’t really fire Patrice because of his disobedience, but he knew that wasn’t true. Dr. Midas was exacting when it came to his research fellows and assistants, and he did not tolerate failure in any form. Much as he told himself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t his problem, Edgar Prime’s kinder nature won out and he found himself heaving a great sigh and giving a single resigned nod. He wondered dully whether Patrice’s attempts to befriend him had been a calculated move for just such a moment as this — even if that were true he couldn’t bring himself to feel indifferent about the consequences his actions might have on her.
“I’ve gotta go,” he mumbled to Noela and Luken.
“But —” Noela started indignantly, before Luken caught her eye and shook his head. Reluctantly, she shut her mouth, scowling at Patrice.
“You’ve got our contact info,” Luken said, clapping him on the back. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t,” Edgar Prime said. Noela hugged him, then he walked back across the street to the conference center a half-step behind Patrice all the way. The lobby seemed dark and gloomy in contrast to the sun outside, and it took a few seconds before Edgar Prime’s eyes adjusted. He followed Patrice to the auditorium where he was assailed once more by Arthur Blair.
“Prime!” he called out jovially. “How are you enjoying the conference this year? Can I get a quote?”
“No,” Edgar Prime said shortly. He slouched into the auditorium and sat in the row behind Dr. Midas, Dr. Yang, and Harlow. Patrice sat down at his side, casting a curious glance at him but not commenting. Edgar Prime tried to keep his expression neutral, not wanting to answer any questions. Before long he had zoned out, thinking again of Noela and Luken. His mood improved by a fraction. True, he was in here rather than outside with them, but they were based in New York, and he’d be able to connect with them again after the conference. He wished there was something he could do to contribute — something more than simply showing up and enjoying himself.
He suddenly realized that there was and got up quickly, telling Patrice he’d be right back. Edgar Prime found Arthur Blair in the lobby, pacing and recording a list of reminders into his phone.
“Don’t forget to stop at CVS for that prescription. Also, follow up with that girl from the bar — Sally? Sylvia? Figure out her name first. Or just don’t say it on the message. Then prep for the interviews and —” Arthur Blair turned to find Edgar Prime behind him and stopped mid-sentence with a comically startled look on his face. He clicked off the recording and put his phone into his pocket. “Prime, how are you? Can I help you with something?”
With difficulty, Edgar Prime suppressed his snort of derision. “I have a condition. For the interview.”
“Name it,” Blair said. “We’re happy to accommodate anything you might need.”
“I’ll only talk to you if you do a story on the Clone Advocacy Network first. If I like that article, then you’ll get your interview with me.”
Blair scratched his pointed nose, and stroked his auburn goatee nervously. “That’s a lot to ask, for me to have it done before my article with you. What if I interviewed this, er, group, and put them in your feature as well?”
“I don’t think so,” Edgar Prime said. “That doesn’t give me any guarantee you’ll actually do it.”
“But — I don’t have any names, contact info — how can I do this on such short notice?” blustered Blair.
“They’re right across the street.” Edgar Prime pointed through the glass entryway. “Noela Kearney and Luken Ochoa are the CAN founders. I have their phone numbers. Tell them I referred you.”
Blair’s forehead began sweating again. “This is quite a tall order.”
“Then I guess you’d better get started.”
Blair gave him a reluctant nod before he headed out to meet the protestors. Edgar Prime watched him go, then reentered the auditorium with a strange and intoxicating feeling. He had to mull it over for half the panel discussion before he could correctly identify the sensation, as he had experienced it only rarely before. What Edgar Prime felt in that moment was power.
31: MIRA
“I’m worried, Damon.” The man said it flatly, without emotion. “What if something happened?”
“If something happened, we’d know,” Harlow said.
There was a pause, and the sound of two drinks being poured. Mira shifted her earbud from the right ear to the left. The man in Harlow’s office was Solomon O’Brien, a business associate in both the legitimate and (it was believed) black market arenas. He had been glowering when he passed by Mira’s desk; though he and Harlow were similar in age, O’Brien looked several decades older. He had thin white hair, sallow skin, reddish eyes and the saggy jowls of a bloodhound.
O’Brien coughed. “Is there a plan in place if there is a problem? We can’t have Smith singing the wrong tune if he gets picked up.”
“Do you really think you need to ask me that question, old friend?” There was reproach in Harlow’s voice. “I’d like to think you know me better than that.”
There was a pause. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” Harlow said. “You let me worry about Smith. You worry about your end.”
“Dorcas Pryce is acting up again. She gave a speech on the senate floor about how cloning is an abomination and how congress needs to pass a law banning it. It’s getting a lot of play in the media.”
Harlow laughed. “Fortunately everyone’s too busy gawking at her tits to take her seriously. We should thank whoever dresses her. Those things deserve their own PR agent.”
“You’re entirely too blasé about this, Damon. Her support base
grows every day. You know campaign contributions only go so far when the fear of being voted out of office is looming over their heads like the sword of Damocles.”
“Campaign contributions are what get them elected in the first place. People are sheep, Solomon. They might bleat a bit when they’re being steered, but in the end they have no choice but to move along in the direction the dogs lead them. Dorcas Pryce is no threat to us.”
“I’d feel more comfortable if she weren’t such a loose cannon,” O’Brien said. “What does she care about?”
“Cloning, apparently,” Harlow quipped. “It’s an affront to her deeply held religious beliefs. Whether she can be persuaded to be less vocal about it —”
“— is something we need to discover.”
“If you insist. I’ll send my finest ambassador with an offer.”
“Perhaps one of our allies in Washington could deliver the message,” O’Brien suggested. “Do you think she’d be more amenable to being approached by a woman or a man?”
“I’ve heard she prefers the company of women,” Harlow said. “But that’s unconfirmed. She’s notoriously private.”
“Fine. Send whoever you think will do the job best. This is all about subtlety. If the pass is fumbled, Ms. Pryce will have a field day telling the press how the cloning industry tried to buy her.”
“It’s as good as done.”
O’Brien gave a wheezing cough. “Did you read that article in 2100? The Clone Advocacy Network aired a lot of their ‘concerns’ about the lack of regulations and the dangers of the black market.”
“I saw the headline. They’re just a naive bunch of kids,” Harlow said dismissively.
“I’m not sure you’re right about that, Damon. They seem organized to me.”
Harlow snorted. “Solomon, you’re a born conspiracy theorist. There’s no way some dumb kids and a reporter who’s out for clickbait are any threat to us.”
“They’ve got Midas’s clone with them now. That Edgar Prime.”
