Clones

by Gardner Dozois

  "No, dear, forget Klef, will you?" Mia's voice turned sharp with exasperation.

  "Oh." Mary turned her head away.

  "Can't you think of anything else? Do try, dear, just try." "All right."

  "Now come along, they're waiting for us."

  Mary stood up submissively and followed her sister out of the dormitory.

  In bright sunlight the women stood talking quietly and worriedly around the bower. With them was a husky Chemist with golden brows and hair; his pink face was good-natured and peaceful. He pinched the nearest sister's buttocks, whispered something in her ear; she slapped his hand irritably.

  "Quick, here they come," said one suddenly. "Go in now, Gunner."

  With an obedient grimace, the blond man ducked his head and disappeared into the bower. In a moment Mia and Mary came into view, the thin girl hanging back when she saw the crowd, and the bower.

  "What is it?" she complained. "I don't want—Mia, let me go."

  "No, dear, come along, it's for the best, you'll see," said the other girl soothingly. "Do give me a hand here, one of you, won't you?"

  The two women urged the girl toward the bower. Her face was pale and frightened. "But what do you want me to—You said Klef wasn't—Were you only teasing me? Is Klef— ?"

  The women gave each other looks of despair. "Go in, dear, and see, why don't you?"

  A wild expression came into Mary's eyes. She hesitated, then stepped nearer the bower; the two women let her go. "KiefT' she called plaintively. There was no answer.

  "Go in, dear."

  She looked at them appealingly, then stooped and put her head in. The women held their breaths. They heard her gasp, then saw her backing out again.

  "Crabs and mullets!" swore Vivana. "Get her in, you fools!"

  The girl was crying out, weakly and helplessly, as four women swarmed around her, pushed her into the bower. One of them lingered, peered in.

  "Has he got her?"

  "Yes, now he's got her." Stifled mewing sounds were coming from the bower. "Hang onto her, you fool!"

  "She bit!" came Gunner's indignant voice. Then silence.

  "Sst, leave them alone," whispered Vivana. The woman at the bower entrance turned, tiptoed away. Together the women withdrew a few yards, found themselves seats on the old steps under the portico, and sat down comfortably close to one another.

  There was a scream.

  The women leaped up, startled and white. Not one of them could remember hearing such a sound before.

  Gunner's hoarse voice bawled something, then there was a stir. Mary appeared in the entrance to the bower. Her skirt was ripped, and she was clutching it to her lap with one hand. Her eyes were filmed, pink-rimmed. "Oh!" she said, moving past them blindly.

  "Mary—" said one, reaching out a hand.

  "Oh!" she said hopelessly, and moved on, clutching her garment to her body.

  "What's the matter?" they asked each other. "What did Gunner do?"

  "I did what I was supposed to do," said Gunner, sulkily appearing. There was a red bruise on his cheek. "Gut me and clean me if I ever do it with that one again, though."

  "You fool, you must have been too rough. Go after her, someone."

  "Well, then serve her yourself the next time, if you know so much." Prodding his cheek gently with a finger, the Chemist went away.

  Up the slope, an orchestrino began playing. "If you would not be cruel, torment me no more. Do not deny me ever; let it be now or never. Give me your love, then, as you promised me before . . .

  "Shut that thing off!" cried Vivana angrily.

  Her ageship, Laura-one, the eldest Weaver, was pacing up and down the sea-wall promenade, knotting her fingers together in silent agitation. Once she paused to look over the parapet; below her the wall dropped sheer to blue water. She glanced over at the blur of Porto, half concealed in the morning haze, and at the stark hills above with their green fur of returning vegetation. Her eyes were still keen; halfway across the distance, she could make out a tiny dark dot, moving toward the island.

  Footsteps sounded in the street below; in a moment Vivana appeared, holding Mary by the arm. The younger woman's eyes were downcast; the older looked worried and anxious.

  "Here she is, your ageship," said Vivana. "They found her at the little jetty, throwing bottles into the sea."

  "Again?" asked the old woman. "What was in the bottles?"

  "Here's one of them," said Vivana, handing over a crumpled paper.

  " `Tell Klef the Fisher of the town of Porto that Mary Weaver still loves him,' " the old woman read. She folded the paper slowly and put it into her pocket. "Always the same," she said. "Mary, my child, don't you know that these bottles never can reach your Klef?"

  The young woman did not raise her head or speak.

  "And twice this month the Fishers have had to catch you and bring you back when you stole a launch," the old woman continued. "Child, don't you see that this must end?"

  Mary did not answer.

  "And these things that you weave, when you weave at all," said Laura-one, taking a wadded length of cloth from her apron pocket. She spread it taut and held it to the light. In the pattern, visible only when the light fell glancingly upon it, was woven the figure of a seated woman with a child in her arms. Around them were birds with spread wings among the intertwined stems of flowers.

  "Who taught you to weave like this, child?" she asked. "No one," said Mary, not looking up.

  The old woman looked down at the cloth again. "It's beautiful work, but—" She sighed and put the cloth away. "We have no place for it. Child, you weave so well, why can't you weave the usual patterns?"

  "They are dead. This one is alive."

  The old woman sighed again. "And how long is it that you have been demanding your Klef back, dear?"

  "Seven months."

  "But now think." The old woman paused, glanced over her shoulder. The black dot on the sea was much nearer, curving in toward the jetty below. "Suppose this Klef did receive one of your messages; what then?"

  "He would know how much I love him," said Mary, raising her head. Color came into her cheeks; her eyes brightened.

  "And that would change his whole life, his loyalties, everything?"

  "Yes!"

  "And if it did not?"

  Mary was silent.

  "Child, if that failed, would you confess that you have been wrong—would you let us help you?"

  "It wouldn't fail," Mary said stubbornly.

  "But if it did?" the older woman insisted gently. "Just suppose—just let yourself imagine."

  Mary was silent a moment. "I would want to die," she said.

  The two elder Weavers looked at each other, and for a moment neither spoke.

  "May I go now?" Mary asked.

  Vivana cast a glance down at the jetty, and said quickly, "Maybe it's best, your ageship. Tell them—"

  Laura-one stopped her with a raised hand. Her lips were compressed. "And if you go, child, what will you do now?"

  "Go and make more messages, to put into bottles."

  The old woman sighed. "You see?" she said to Vivana.

  Footsteps sounded faintly on the jetty stair. A man's head appeared; he was an island Fisher, stocky, dark-haired, with a heavy black mustache. "Your ageship, the man is here," he said, saluting Laura-one. "Shall I—?"

  "No," said Vivana involuntarily. "Don't— Send him back—"

  "What would be the good of that?" the old woman asked reasonably. "No, bring him up, Alec."

  The Fisher nodded, turned and was gone down the stair. Mary's head had come up. She said, "The man—?" "There, it's all right," said Vivana, going to her. "Is it Klef?" she asked fearfully.

  The older woman did not reply. In a moment the black-mustached Fisher appeared again; he stared at them, climbed to the head of the stair, stood aside.

  Behind him, after a moment, another head rose out of the stairwell. Under the russet hair, the face was grave and thin. The gray eyes went to Laura
-one, then to Mary; they stared at her, as the man continued to climb the steps. He reached the top, and stood waiting, hands at his sides. The black-mustached Fisher turned and descended behind him.

  Mary had begun to tremble all over.

  "There, dear, it's all right," said Vivana, pressing her arms. As if the words had released her, Mary walked to the Fisher. Tears were shining on her face. She clutched his tunic with both hands, staring up at him. "Klef?" she said.

  His hands came up to hold her. She threw herself against him then, so violently that he staggered, and clutched him as if she wished to bury herself in his body. Strangled, hurt sounds came out of her.

  The man looked over her head at the two older women. "Can't you leave us alone for a moment?" he asked.

  "Of course," said Laura-one, a little surprised. "Why not? Of course." She gestured to Vivana, and the two turned, walked away a little distance down the promenade to a bench, where they sat looking out over the sea-wall.

  Gulls mewed overhead. The two women sat side by side without speaking or looking at one another. They were not quite out of earshot.

  "Is it really you?" Mary asked, holding his face between her hands. She tried to laugh. "Darling, I can't see . . . you're all blurred."

  "I know," said Klef quietly. "Mary, I've thought about you many times."

  "Have you?" she cried. "Oh, that makes me so happy. Oh, Klef, I could die now! Hold me, hold me."

  His face hardened. His hands absently stroked her back, up and down. "I kept asking to be sent back," he said. "Finally I persuaded them—they thought you might listen to me. I'm supposed to cure you."

  "Of loving you?" Mary laughed. At the sound, his hands tightened involuntarily on her back. "How foolish they were! How foolish, Klef!"

  "Mary, we have only these few minutes," he said.

  She drew back a little to look at him. "I don't understand."

  "I'm to talk to you, and then go back. That's all I'm here for."

  She shook her head in disbelief. "But you told me—" "Mary, listen to me. There is nothing else to do. Nothing."

  "Take me back with you, Klef." Her hands gripped him hard. "That's what I want—just to be with you. Take me back."

  "And where will you live—in the Fishers' dormitory with forty men?"

  "I'll live anywhere, in the streets, I don't care—" "They would never allow it. You know that, Mary." She was crying, holding him, shuddering all over. "Don't tell me that, don't say it. Even if it's true, can't you pretend a little? Hold me, Klef, tell me that you love me." "I love you," he said.

  "Tell me that you'll keep me, never let me go, no matter what they say."

  He was silent a moment. "It's impossible."

  She raised her head.

  "Try to realize," he said, "this is a sickness, Mary. You must cure yourself."

  "Then you're sick too!" she said.

  "Maybe I am, but I'll get well, because I know I have to. And you must get well too. Forget me. Go back to your sisters and your weaving."

  She put her cheek against his chest, gazing out across the bright ocean. "Let me just be quiet with you a moment," she added. "I won't cry anymore. Klef—"

  "Yes?"

  "Is that all you have to say to me?"

  "It has to be all." His eyes closed, opened again. "Mary, I didn't want to feel this way. It's wrong, it's unhealthy, it hurts. Promise me, before I go. Say you'll let them cure you."

  She pushed herself away, wiped her eyes and her cheeks with the heel of one hand. Then she looked up. "I'll let them cure me," she said.

  His face contorted. "Thank you. I'll go now, Mary."

  "One more kiss!" she cried, moving toward him involuntarily. "Only one more!"

  He kissed her on the lips, then wrenched himself away, and looking down to where the two women sat, he made an angry motion with his head.

  As they rose and came nearer, he held Mary at arm's length. "Now I'm really going," he said harshly. "Good-bye, Mary."

  "Good-bye, Klef." Her fingers were clasped tight at her waist.

  The man waited, looking over her head, until Vivana came up and took her arms gently. Then he moved away. At the head of the stairs he looked up at her once more; then he turned and began to descend.

  "Dear, it will be better now, you'll see," said Vivana uncertainly.

  Mary said nothing. She stood still, listening to the faint sounds that echoed up from the stairwell: footsteps, voices, hollow sounds.

  There was a sudden clatter, then footsteps mounting the stair. Klef appeared again, chest heaving, eyes bright. He seized both of Mary's hands in his. "Listen!" he said. "I'm mad. You're mad. We're both going to die."

  "I don't care!" she said. Her face was glowing as she looked up at him.

  "They say some of the streams are running pure, in the hills. Grass is growing there—there are fish in the streams, even the wild fowl are coming back. We'll go there, Mary, together—just you and I. Alone. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Klef, yes, darling."

  "Then come on!"

  "Wait!" cried Laura-one shrilly after them as they ran down the stair. "How will you live? What will you eat? Think what you are doing!"

  Faint hollow sounds answered her, then the purr of a motor.

  Vivana moved to Laura-one's side, and the two women stood watching, silent, as the dark tiny shape of the launch moved out into the brightness. In the cockpit they could make out the two figures close together, dark head and light. The launch moved steadily toward the land; and the two women stood staring, unable to speak, long after it was out of sight.

  THE EXTRA

  Grej Egan

  Here's a razor-sharp little cautionary tale that proves once again that you should be careful what you wish for—you just might get it.

  Only a few years into the decade, it's already a fairly safe bet to predict that Australian writer Greg Egan is going to come to be recognized (if indeed he hasn't already) as being one of the big new names to emerge in SF in the nineties. In the last few years, he has become a frequent contributor to Interzone and Asimov's Science Fiction, and has made sales as well to Pulphouse, Analog, Aurealis, Eidolon, and elsewhere; many of his stories have also appeared in various "Best of the Year" series, and he was on the Hugo Final Ballot in 1995 for his story "Cocoon," which won the Ditmar Award and the Asimov's Readers Award. His first novel, Quarantine, appeared in 1992, to wide critical acclaim, and was followed by a second novel in 1994, Permutation City, which won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award. His most recent books are a collection of his short fiction, Axiomatic, and a new novel, Distress. Upcoming is another new novel, Diaspora.

  Daniel Gray didn't merely arrange for his Extras to live in a building within the grounds of his main residence—although that in itself would have been shocking enough. At the height of his midsummer garden party, he had their trainer march them along a winding path which took them within meters of virtually every one of his wealthy and powerful guests.

  There were five batches, each batch a decade younger than the preceding one, each comprising twenty-five Extras (less one or two here and there; naturally, some depletion had occurred, and Gray made no effort to hide the fact). Batch A were forty-four years old, the same age as Gray himself. Batch E, the four-year-olds, could not have kept up with the others on foot, so they followed behind, riding an electric float.

  The Extras were as clean as they'd ever been in their lives, and their hair—and beards in the case of the older ones—had been laboriously trimmed, in styles that amusingly parodied the latest fashions. Gray had almost gone so far as to have them clothed—but after much experimentation he'd decided against it; even the slightest scrap of clothing made them look too human, and he was acutely aware of the boundary between impressing his guests with his daring, and causing them real discomfort. Of course, naked, the Extras looked exactly like naked humans, but in Gray's cultural milieu, stark naked humans en masse were not a common sight, and so the paradoxical effect of revealin
g the creatures' totally human appearance was to make it easier to think of them as less than human.

  The parade was a great success. Everyone applauded demurely as it passed by—in the context, an extravagant gesture of approval. They weren't applauding the Extras themselves, however impressive they were to behold; they were applauding Daniel Gray for his audacity in breaking the taboo.

  Gray could only guess how many people in the world had Extras; perhaps the wealthiest ten thousand, perhaps the wealthiest hundred thousand. Most owners chose to be discreet. Keeping a stock of congenitally brain-damaged clones of oneself—in the short term, as organ donors; in the long term (once the techniques were perfected), as the recipients of brain transplants—was not illegal, but it wasn't widely accepted. Any owner who went public could expect a barrage of anonymous hate mail, intense media scrutiny, property damage, threats of violence—all the usual behavior associated with the public debate of a subtle point of ethics. There had been legal challenges, of course, but time and again the highest courts had ruled that Extras were not human beings. Too much cortex was missing; if Extras deserved human rights, so did half the mammalian species on the planet. With a patient, skilled trainer, Extras could learn to run in circles, and to perform the simple, repetitive exercises that kept their muscles in good tone, but that was about the limit. A dog or a cat would have needed brain tissue removed to persuade it to live such a boring life.

  Even those few owners who braved the wrath of the fanatics, and bragged about their Extras, generally had them kept in commercial stables—in the same city, of course, so as not to undermine their usefulness in a medical emergency, but certainly not within the electrified boundaries of their own homes. What ageing, dissipated man or woman would wish to be surrounded by reminders of how healthy and vigorous they might have been, if only they'd lived their lives differently?

  Daniel Gray, however, found the contrasting appearance of his Extras entirely pleasing to behold, given that he, and not they, would be the ultimate beneficiary of their good health. In fact, his athletic clean-living brothers had already supplied him with two livers, one kidney, one lung, and quantities of coronary artery and mucous membrane. In each case, he'd had the donor put down, whether or not it had remained strictly viable; the idea of having imperfect Extras in his collection offended his aesthetic sensibilities.