“I assume the council is waiting,” Carlson said. His tone was commanding. His eyes held the clone’s, willing the copy to submit.
“Oh, it’s you,” the clone said.
The dismissive tone made the rage boil within Carlson. He nearly pulled his weapon and shot the impertinent clone. He contained himself. It wouldn’t be much longer until all of the clones were taken care of.
The clone relaxed and put his worthless blades away. He looked down his nose at Carlson with raw contempt. Apparently the disgrace of pulling guard duty had made this clone extra surly. Or perhaps he was one of those who was having ideas of his own. Thinking about going rogue, maybe. Carlson decided to test it.
“Why do they have such a talented individual as yourself doing menial tasks like guarding those pompous asses?” Carlson asked.
The clone straightened up and cast a narrow-eyed glance back at the closed door.
“Those assholes just pulled me out and told me to do this,” he said. He yanked one of the short katana blades out. “Gave me these pieces of crap. Can you believe it?”
“You certainly deserve better,” Carlson said, “I suppose they keep the good weapons for themselves?”
The clone gave him a sour look. “You bet they do,” he said, “They all have carbon steel blades. Not enough to go around, they said, you’ll have to make do with these.”
“How insulting,” Carlson said.
“Yeah, what makes them so special?” the clone asked. He fingered the blade and cast another glowering look at the door.
Clearly the current class system wasn’t working for this clone. Carlson decided to push it a little further.
“They’re hardly special,” Carlson said, “After all, every one of you has the same DNA, the same memories. You were made to be equals. Yet they dare to make you into a common guard. As if you were lesser than they.”
The clone continued to finger the blade. “They kept saying it was because they were older. That they came out first,” the clone said, “They had seniority.”
Carlson snorted a short laugh. “As if that means anything,” he said, “Just because someone was first in line, does that give them the right to hog all the good things for themselves.”
“No. It doesn’t,” the clone said. His tone was low, dangerous.
Carlson kept the smile from his face. A society of equals where somewhere less than equal would never hold. Not when each and every individual was convinced he was more equal than his brothers.
“Perhaps you should discuss your concerns with some of your other brothers,” Carlson said, “After all, one council can always be replaced with another. Perhaps one that is more interested in equitable distribution of resources.”
The clone put the katana back in its sheath. “More for me is the only equitable distribution I’m interested in,” he said.
Carlson gave him a wink. “Aren’t we all?”
Before the clone could reply, Carlson moved past him, pushing open the door.
Fifty-Two
The inside of the clone’s council chambers was done in a manner only slightly less gaudy than the blood-red hallway. It appeared the wall between two apartments had been knocked out to create a more opulent space for the council chambers. The walls of the chamber were painted a metallic gold. The blacked out windows were framed with dark red moulding. Trim of the same color ran along the space between ceiling and wall and along the floor. On the floor appeared to be slabs of shiny, black onyx. At the center of the room was a long table. It, too, appeared to be made from black stone. Wall sconces at the corners of the room provided illumination. There was an odor in the room, something beyond the fresh paint. A scent of carrion and blood. Had the clones been doing human sacrifices here?
If the clones’ intention had been to create a startling effect, then Carlson considered himself startled. He stopped just inside the door, scanning the bizarreness of it all.
Then, of course, there was the council itself.
Five clones sat behind the black stone table. All identical. Of course. They dressed in long sleeved black shirts and black pants. Their shoes were also black. And shiny.
Except there was a tiny difference. One of the clones, seated at the center of the table, two clones flanking him on either side. This clone had dark red bands at the end of his sleeves. The bands were thin, barely noticeable. But they could only be a signifier of rank.
The notion was quaint, if not laughable. The red banded clone had somehow convinced his fellow clones that he was somehow above the rest of them. That he was the most special among all the other identical clones.
A remarkable feat of ambition. Was the clone working to form his own army, just as Carlson had once hoped to do? Would he find the task just as Carlson had? Akin to herding cats?
“It is good to see you. Father.” the red banded clone said, “What significance should we assign to this visit?”
Carlson stepped farther into the room. He sensed something at his left. He glanced, then froze. Slowly he turned. What was the purpose of this?
A series of thick boards had been attached to the wall. Nailed to the boards was the body of a clone. Most of the clone’s skin had been flayed. The body looked like a bloody anatomy chart. Blood ran down the wall and pooled blackly on the floor. The only part of the clones’ skin that was left intact was his face.
They wanted me to see this. They want me to be afraid.
He composed himself before turning back to the five council members. The clones were sending him a very obvious message. Perhaps it was time to give them one of his own.
“Do you know how expensive those things are to make?” Carlson asked.
The clones glanced at one another. Except for the red banded clone. He stared at Carlson, a half smile on his lips.
“Of course we do, father,” the clone said, “However sometimes one must make an example for others. As I’m sure you know.”
An example for me. Carlson stepped closer to the table. The clones were no doubt armed, but did they just have knives? Or had they warmed up to firearms also? The weight of his pistol tugged at his shoulder. Was it time to take care of these five once and for all?
“Is there dissension among your ranks?” Carlson asked.
The center clone gave a small shrug. There were lines of tension around his eyes, though. The move to the apartment had put a lot of stress on the clones–as Carlson had hoped it would. Calling all the clones together was creating even more tension.
“Nothing that can’t be efficiently dealt with, father,” the red banded clone said, “Now, what news do you bring us today?”
Carlson ignored the question, instead glancing back at the flayed clone. The job had been artfully done. He would have expected nothing less. After all the memories and skills that guided their hands had come from his. A small tremor ran through him. To see his own, youthful face up there was disturbing. Being on the other side of the knife was not a place he wanted to be. And he would not be. He was the Reaper.
“I was going to tell you that the cloning lab will be up and running in another week,” he said, “But if this is how you are going to use my resources, I wonder if I should continue funding it.”
A flash of fury crossed the red banded clone's face. And was just as quickly hidden. The clone stood, a slow, deliberate motion. His face could have been carved from rock, for all the emotion it showed.
“Father, I know you are only jesting,” the clone said, “We cannot carry out your Great Work without more brothers to help us.”
Carlson smiled. The scent of blood in the room was almost intoxicating. Except when he remembered that, technically, it was his blood.
“Discretion is what is needed, children,” Carlson said. He waved a hand at the flayed clone, then at the room. “This is not discrete. All of this is not discrete. You have been indulging yourselves at my expense.”
The red banded clone put his fingers on the table and leaned forward. “We are in the midst of
creating a new society, father,” he said, “While you are a singular entity, governed by your own laws, we are Legion. We must have a structure of rules to govern our behavior. We do not have the luxury of thinking of ourselves as individuals. We are all part of a greater organism. Those who cannot see that are like cancers that must be eliminated from the body.”
Carlson kept the amusement from his face. The situation was dangerous enough without him laughing in the clone’s face. A greater organism, indeed. And apparently this clone with the silly red bands on his sleeves had elected himself to be the head of this body. After all, someone had to lead, did they not?
Which still left him with the question of: why hadn’t the clones deferred to the original to be their leader? Why had they shoved Carlson aside, more or less?
"Of course," Carlson said, "And you are doing a fine job of leading this new organism. I, of course, am the old model, and must defer to the freshness of your youth and energy. The new clone lab, will come online soon, as I said it would. There is something else that brings me here today, however."
The clone glowered at him for a few moments, then returned to his seat. Carlson could almost smell the testosterone in the air. The red banded clone did everything but piss on the walls to mark his territory. Had DeVol slipped a little something extra into this clone? Or had it been a mutation? Yes, a mutation. That made more sense. No matter how hard DeVol had tried there must have been some variation in the growth process. An extra cosmic ray or two that scrambled some important part of this clone’s DNA. After all Carlson didn’t hold any ambitions of dominating the world. He simply wanted it to be empty of people. For the sake of the Earth. And perhaps for his own enjoyment.
“And what news do you bring us father?” the clone asked.
Carlson glanced to the other clones. They sat there, hands folded in front of them. They weren’t much of a council. None of the other four had said a single word since he arrived. Were they that cowed by the red cuffed clone? Or were they simply well trained?
Or, perhaps, each one of them was seething inside that they weren’t wearing those deep red strips on their own cuffs and sitting at the center of the table.
“I don’t bring you news,” Carlson said, “I come to see how far along you are at gathering your flock home.”
The center clone frowned. “Conditions in this building are far from ideal, father,” the clone said, “Even given the generous budget you have provided.”
That seems to have been mainly spent in this room.
“I hesitate to bring all the clones together under this single roof,” the clone continued, “It seems unnecessarily risky, not to mention uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable. The head clone had to be dealing with dissension in his ranks. Two hundred Carlsons–even defective ones–would be chaffing under anyone’s command. As Carlson himself had learned.
The trick now was to leverage that to his advantage. He studied the red banded clone. The clone was showing signs of strain. Enough to take definitive action?
Carlson motioned to the flayed clone on the wall. “You are having discipline problems,” he said.
Muscles bunched along the clone’s jaw. “Nothing that can’t be controlled,” he said.
“Of course,” Carlson said, “But that is the reason why I am wanting to call all the brothers together. I might have a solution to…discipline problems.”
The red banded clone exchanged looks with the other four.
“Go on,” the head clone said.
Carlson ran his gaze over the other four clones. “Perhaps, it would be better if just the two of us discussed this.”
The red banded clone nodded to the other clones. As one, they rose and filed out another door at the end of the room. The door clicked shut and the red banded clone turned and opened a panel on the wall. Carlson tensed. Was this the long awaited attack?
Behind the panel was a series of switches. The clone flipped two of the switches. The clone returned to his seat.
“We’re private now,” the clone said, “I’ve turned off the room’s surveillance.”
Surveillance? The idiots were recording was happened in the room? Like the flaying and execution of their brother clone? If the authorities every got a hold of such evidence…
But then, the clones never expected to get caught, did they? They were above the law, just as Carlson was. Except they were Legion. They believed that even if the authorities captured one of them, the body would still live on. And grow another to replace the part that had been cut off.
Such a mindset would certainly explain their reckless behavior. It was what came from being many instead of just one. Carlson could see there would be advantages. It still seemed messy, though.
“So, do tell, what is your solution to my discipline problems,” the clone said.
Carlson moved to the table and sat on the edge. It put him uncomfortably close to the clone, but it also put him in a position of superiority, looking down at him. The clone leaned back in his chair. He drummed his fingers on the desk, and gave Carlson a look of utter boredom.
“Shall we drop the pretenses?” Carlson said.
“That would certainly speed things along, wouldn’t it?” the clone said.
Carlson took a deep breath. How much could he trust himself? Literally. It was a strange situation. Why had he ever thought cloning himself would be a good idea?
“The Great Goal is dead, you know that as well as I do,” Carlson said.
“The Great Goal was stillborn,” the clone said, “Humanity will eventually end itself, but not by our hand.”
“It is good we are in agreement,” Carlson said.
“How could we not be?” the clone said, “We are the same person. Mostly.”
Mostly.
“Yes. So you are aware that more of us does not make the world a better place, as I hoped it would,” Carlson said.
“From your point of view.”
“And, I suspect, from yours.”
The clone nodded. The fingers kept drumming the desktop. It was annoying. Which meant the clone was doing it on purpose to put him off his mental balance. Much like sitting on the table and looking down on him was supposed to upset the clone’s mental balance.
“Then you know why I’m trying to collect the rest of the clones,” Carlson said.
The clone rolled his eyes. “Father, it couldn’t have been more obvious if you painted it in the sky in neon orange letters,” the clone said, “You’ve already sold us out to the authorities. Now you’re trying to herd us all together so you can put a bow on it and hand us over to the authorities.”
The clone was very astute. It shouldn’t have surprised Carlson. Supposedly the clone was as intelligent as he was. Perhaps they weren’t all idiots.
“That is more or less correct,” Carlson said, “As you have also figured out, there is not enough room in the world for so many of us.”
“You should have thought of that before you fired up the copier. Father.”
“Yes, it was not well thought out. It was a bit of an impulse. Or I was caught up with the romantic notion of it,” Carlson said, “Needless to say, it did not turn out as I had hoped.”
"Quite," the clone said. His look was almost contemptuous now. And the fingers would not stop drumming the table. A vision flashed behind Carlson's eyes–whipping out his razor-edged knife and chopping those offending fingers off. Drum with that you inferior copy.
“So now I have a dilemma,” Carlson said, “My identity has been compromised. No great loss, but still, an annoyance. And I have hundred of copies of myself out there creating more problems.”
The clone shrugged, but did not stop drumming the table. “And now your solution is to convince us to commit suicide to make your life easier again?”
This was the delicate part of the conversation. Carlson knew he wouldn’t be able to hide the ultimate goal of his plan. At least not from all the clones. It was time to find out how like minded he and this clon
e were.
“Perhaps not all of you,” Carlson said, “I know you are very involved in building your society here, but I’m wondering if an alternative might appeal to you.”
The clone’s fingers stopped drumming. Finally. Some of the tension left Carlson’s shoulders. Just a little, though. The situation was still lethal. Though he couldn’t see it, Carlson knew the clone had to have a weapon on him. Near at hand. Carlson hoped it was a knife and not a gun.
“I hope your alternative involves only a single double cross,” the clone said, “As least as far as I am concerned.”
Carlson smiled and spread his arms, palms open. “I believe there is enough room in the world for two of us.”
“And no more?” the clone asked.
“You know there could be no more than just us,” Carlson said.
“What about a continuing generation?”
Carlson blinked. A continuing generation? A smug smile crossed the clone’s lips. “Something you haven’t thought about, have you, father?” the clone said, “You will die eventually. I will die. Probably sooner than you, since Dr. DeVol never quite solved the aging problem. But I see no need for us to perish completely.”
As soon as the clone spoke, the meaning became clear in Carlson’s mind. A subtle, yet brilliant way to continue toward the Great Goal. He motioned for the clone to continue speaking.
"I can see it in your eyes that you understand," the clone said, "A very simple thing. One one of us nears the end of our life, we shall create another clone to replace us and carry on the Great Work. The two of us, perhaps each taking one-half of the world for our domain, continuing to thin the festering herd of humanity. Forever. Carrying on our memories from generation to generation. It might take thousands of years, but we would finally see the end of humanity. With luck and some planning, perhaps that last life would perish by our hand."
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