The Cloned Man
Friday, May 20, 2185
Ordell Bentley watched the Houston Aegis play against the Seattle AirCrawlers. Rain materialized above the display area and fell in thin streaks of static flickers, as four mechs and three drones on each team formed up at opposite ends of the field. Forward drones on both teams seemed confused and lost whenever the hovering goal hoop came close enough for them to score. For Houston, a combination of the rain and cold temperatures kept the team from scoring. Southern drones, optimized for the hot, dry climate, often failed in the dense rain. Seattle drones, heavier and slower because of the weatherproofing, performed better. Mechs labored in combat below the air dance, occasionally taking pot-shots at the opposing team’s drones.
Ordell strained to make out the truck-sized mechs, reduced to the size of sheetrock anchors, as they moved across the flat surface. Their holograms collided and then distorted on impact, only to flicker back into focus a moment later in another position. The dancing images brought to mind the only in-person Zephyr game he'd ever experienced - barely a year ago.
A photograph on the mantle captured that game. He looked up at the flickering image positioned on the mantel, which showed him grinning as a drone zipped by in the background. Beside that was another picture of him and the dark-haired woman who had accompanied him, back when she was still too nervous to be called his girlfriend. He stared at the picture, tracing the lines of her face in his mind. Ordell always found it difficult to believe that such a wonderful woman could be his. Of course, like everything else a model possessed, she couldn't be entirely his.
Her lips were the shade of the Rose Red glossy external paint - a color he’d used to restore pseudo-Victorian homes outside of League City. Like the homes, her down-turned eyes were haunted by an air of sadness and loss in their beauty.
The game faded into the background. Ordell reached out for the picture and his hands closed on the frame. The bar code tattooed across his wrist brought a grimace to his face as his bushy brows furrowed up. His teeth clenched shut in the reflection suspended above her warm smile. Ordell let go of the frame and turned away from the mantle, bumping the table. On impact, the dilapidated holovision skipped channels from sports to news.
"...babies. We have to have more babies. That's the only way to make sure that we don't go completely extinct."
A familiar voice expounded on procreation's benefits in the usual way. Ordell glanced back towards the holovision to see Gregory Ramsey's head rotate in a circle. The man’s mouth never stopped moving.
"The only way to keep natural-born citizens in control of this country is to out-produce. You have the most critical role. Have babies, lots of them. One point three million clones are produced every year to meet demand, and it's only going to increase. You think those clones won't take your jobs? You think the sterilization works?
"Look, I don't hate clones. Clones work for me in my home. That doesn't mean that I want more clones in America than God-fearing Americans. And why should I be ashamed of that?"
A panning effect swiped Gregory's floating head from view and replaced it with the head of a woman. She stared forward with piercing blue eyes beneath close-cropped blonde hair.
"Mr. Ramsey, what would you say to professional women like me, who don't have any desire for children?”
“You must know my answer to that. I would say that maybe it's time you started thinking about the decline of humanity. There's no reason you can't be successful and do your part to keep humans from going extinct. Look at the Orphanage Program. Professional women can pop out babies too. As long as they're natural-born, the federal government will take care of them, no questions asked. Nine months and back to your life. It's just that simple."
Ordell couldn't see what the anchor thought of that, as the camera had panned back over to Mr. Ramsey and stayed there until he answered the next question. Ordell suspected that he could have guessed what kinds of faces the fiery news host made off-camera though.
"Lots of people - the majority - disagree with you. Women generally don't like your recommendation to 'have more babies' to solve an economic problem. Do you have any new ideas?"
“Well, in the meantime, why don't we add some teeth to the Madison rule? Where are the penalties for companies who fail to sterilize their clones, or mark them properly? What about the Sanctuary States, which don't report escaped clones at all to the federal government? What about the 'underground railroad'? It's past time we do something about the terrorists who fail to take the law seriously. And frankly, maybe the law doesn't go far enough."
"I think you're referring to the 'Freedom Underground’. A political organization. Why are you so obsessed with them?”
"It's time to call them what they are, Janet. Terrorists, plain and simple. They steal from God-Fearing Americans and funnel clones to Sanctuary States. What happens after that? Nobody knows. I tell you what I think, they're organizing, and before long, everyone will be telling me how smart I was to see this coming."
The woman's head came back on, with a look on her face that betrayed her contempt for the man before she seemed to realize that the cameras were on her, and plastered back on her thin smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Ramsey. We'll call you back if that happens."
"Mark my words, Janet. But it's been a pleasure to be on your show."
Only after Gregory finished did Ordell realize that he'd been unable to turn his head away for the entire interview. This man could capture the attention of the very people upon whom he heaped hate. What must he be doing to those "God-fearing Americans" he talked about? Frustration mounted in him as he considered just how little control he had of his life, while people like Gregory Ramsey kept trying to take more.
Lights flashed through his window as a car pulled into his apartment complex. He peeked out between the curtain and a corner of the window to see who pulled up.
The parking lot appeared mostly the same as it had the day before. On its far edge sat the only volantrae he'd ever seen in Tribeca. Like everything else in the community, it lacked major pieces. A tan cover hid the model name and distorted its shape so he couldn't tell what make or model it was. He could tell it used to be self-piloting by the slight bump up in the center of the hood, which operated its sensors. He doubted it would ever fly again though.
A long black luxury car with chrome on everything that would take it marred the "scenic” view. It looked expensive by a ten thousand dollar chrome job. He could tell that it couldn't fly like the Falcon it imitated. It lacked the necessary boosters, and the volantrae with distributed ion engines didn’t come with wheels.
When Mark Ruby stepped free of the car, his red hair popping out against a backdrop of gray twilight, Ordell knew who the he was there for.
Even as he rationalized that Mark's presence might have been unrelated to his own, his body tensed up to run. When an angry looking friend emerged from the vehicle as well, Ordell knew they weren’t there for the famous Second Avenue prostitutes. May and Juliet, purveyors of the oldest profession, would be lonely tonight. Both of these men were HPM sympathizers, and both of them were friends of Matthew Rawls, who happened to be married to the woman in his photograph.
"Come out here, shill!"
Mark positioned himself center in front of Ordell's apartment door, removing all doubt. Ordell pulled away from the velvet orange print curtain and ducked down to hide his silhouette. As heavy as it was, it still permitted a surprising amount of light through.
He fled to the back of the house, stopping only to pick up his go-bag. When Ordell pulled the bag up from its hiding place, he felt his shirt snag on an old wound. He reached up to his chest and touched a scar hiding under his shirt. He would not become a red line on someone's expense account.
Black duffel bag in hand, he needed only to make his exit. The best thing about his apartment was that it backed to a paved alleyway, and then to the trees. The second best was that it was on the first floor. All he had to do to escape was pop out the useless Climate Control unit and crawl through the opening. If he had the time to put it back, it would look like he hadn't even been at home. He could do it in about five minutes altogether - time Ordell suspected he didn’t have.
He shoved the machine out with a loud crash and dove through. As he did, his foot caught on the window ledge, and he swung head-first downward toward the ground. He got an immediate mouthful of gravel and, judging by the pain and metallic taste in his mouth, lost a tooth or two. He had also skinned both palms in the process. Blood dripped from open wounds to the ground at his feet, but he ignored it and looked instead toward his car.
But there was no car there. An excellent place to hide a car, the alley behind the hotel was a lousy place to keep an eye on one. He cursed under his breath.
On foot, he re-evaluated his escape plan. To the east lay the beach. He could follow the sand around to the main road if he wanted. The road was drier. Once there, he only had to make it down the country road to Seven-Corners, where he would find himself with a small chance of blending back into anonymity. But men of hate were not the same as men of ignorance. Mark would notice his absence and the missing climate control unit. They would block the lone country road leaving the infected wound of a community. To the west, there lay the possibility he might not come back out with every piece of himself intact. The blossoming swampland had all of the real swamp accommodations, including cotton-mouth snakes and alligators.
Ordell loosened gravel wedged between his teeth and his gums. He spit out a mouthful into a bloody splash on the pavement. With his tongue, he confirmed that the dive had cost him a tooth, but at least it was in the back where nobody would notice. Half of the bar code tattoo on his wrist no longer existed. He'd often wondered how hard it would be to get rid of that tattoo – apparently not very hard if he didn't mind the pain and did it quickly. It steadily throbbed now, though.
There was no more time to inventory the damage he'd unwittingly imposed on himself. He gathered up his black bag, spit out another mouth-full of blood, and headed into the nascent swamp, the decision made.
