I don’t even know if the bomb will go off. I never was taught much about the bomb.
I wonder briefly if they will ever suspect the truth. If anyone, even if they find the transcript of my thoughts, will believe that I come from another Technical Area in the same laboratory complex. From a compound that has decided to end the cloning.
It’s not that I’m murdering these embryos, you understand. Even killing the fetus locked in the sputnik thing isn’t really murder. For, you see, they are me and I am them. They are my clones, all of them. To kill them, then-I consider it an act of suicide. We, my brethren and I, have simply decided to end the copying of our genes. We believe we have that right. I wonder if others would agree.
The only thing I don’t wonder about is whether or not I will do it. There is no question of that, it’s in my genes.
Around me the lab gurgles and hums. The Geiger counters that are everywhere in the room ping to themselves, counting the particles that shoot through my body on a regular basis, disrupting the DNA in my cells. I recall from the orientation that working in the lab gives you a dose of radiation equivalent to one thirtieth of an x- ray per day. That is, if there are no leaks.
I smile to myself. Radiation hardly matters to a mannequin. I’ve already got cancer. All the growth- accelerated clones get it.
I hear pounding feet and shouting on the other side of the airlock.
I pull the detonator tab.
The first hint of insanity came during the live broadcast of “Orbital Hospital” late Thursday evening. October winds rattled windows and gave muffled screams as they rounded the sharp concrete corners of the studio building. Smells of strong coffee and hot electrical equipment hung in the air.
Director Zundra Chelton activated the communications module embedded in her brain with a twist of thought. She commenced transmitting enquire codes to the movie machine’s data interface. The interface responded with an acknowledgement, and the two modules quickly synched up and handshaking was established. A flood of data roared into her mind as the CPU uploaded the program for “Orbital Hospital”, her top-rated racy soap opera.
It was all there, just as always. There was no hint yet of anything out of the ordinary. Dr. Ray Wazer, the male lead, jumped off the disk and into memory like a puppet springing out of its box. His handsome brows, beaming smile and chiseled chin were perfect down to the last digital pixel of shading data. Wanda Morrison, the slutty hospital administrator with her exquisitely tanned legs flashed into being with equal grace, rendering onto center stage of Dr. Wazer’s office for the opening scene. With the lightning speed of molecular processors linked in parallel, the rest of the sets, cast and background data sprang alive. Zundra opened her eyes and for an instant she was aware of both worlds, the sets and scenes of “Orbital Hospital” superimposed over the dim-lit studio full of hushed computer operators and gleaming status lights. A digital counter flipped to zero, she gave the network boys the thumbs up and performed the mental equivalent of a tapping motion that started the script rolling through the system RAM.
WANDA MORRISON: Dr. Wazer, I’m beginning to believe you. Nurse Tai could have a twin sister that caused all these, ah… embarrassments.
RAY WAZER: Thank you, Ms. Morrison. (Places hands to face, careful to reveal flashy watch and not to hide chin) I was beginning to think that I was the crazy one. I’m very glad someone believes in me.
WANDA MORRISON: Call me Wanda.
RAY WAZER: (Raises head, close-up shot of slightly moist eyes. Hair tousled) Certainly-Wanda.
WANDA MORRISON: (Moves closer slowly, slides buttocks onto desk, side-slit pants fall open to reveal legs. Musical score shifts to Dangerous Romance.) What I really want to know is if you’re still in love with either of them.
(Suddenly the door opens stage left, and a dark, hunched figure shambles into the office. Ray and Wanda react with comic double-takes. The figure is carrying a greasy cardboard package of some kind. It shuffles forward and slaps the thing down on Dr. Wazer’s exquisite desk. It then jerks back its filthy cowl to reveal the face of a disfigured black woman with thin wispy hair and rotted stumps for teeth. One eye droops, gazing lifelessly at the floor.)
DARK FIGURE: Pizza sir, just as you ordered! The lid flips open by itself, showing a disgusting mess of cheese and fish parts, all heads and flipping tails.
DARK FIGURE: Plenty of anchovies on this Fu-*CENSOR INTERRUPT, OUTTAKE!* (figure faces camera, close-up of rotting teeth.) Buy Zeppo’s take-out pizza, system-wide delivery within thirty minutes or it’s free!
Zundra continued the show despite the interruption. The cast moved like wooden marionettes, mouthing their lines without conviction, they missed their cues and fumbled when they kissed. Damn! Through the fugue of the link she felt her real-life nails digging into her real-life palms. Growling in the back of her throat, she managed to finish the show without further deviations from the script. Zundra’s eyes fluttered and her fingers formed harpy’s claws.
“Did we broadcast that crap?” she rattled out of her constricted throat. Her good eye focused long enough to make out Andy’s mashed nose and see him perform a slow, grim nod. Then she strained to see the ratings graphic on the far wall. A steady green line slowly rose to a peak two minutes into the broadcast then took a sudden dive into the red. Only during the last three minutes did the line get out of the red and into the green again, leaving them several million kilo-dollars under target.
“I’ve said it before, and now we have our proof. You’ve got the best ratings in the business, but you’re too old for this game, Z. People in their mid-fifties don’t work the nets these days. Our vast amorphic viewing audience, otherwise known as paying customers, fled like a school of startled fish when you ran that personal ad of yours,” said Andy. His mashed nose wrinkled and he clucked his tongue. “I don’t blame them, I would have been searching for less annoying entertainment myself if these monitors could be switched to someone else’s station.”
Zundra glared at him with one wide open eye, showing plenty of bloodshot white around it. A single droplet of sweat shone on her brown skin. Andy’s hands curled up and he pulled his arms back against his chest. Zundra grinned hugely, then stabbed the release that freed her from the interface. She rolled her mobile life-support module down the aisle between the operators, staring straight ahead.
“Network’s going to shut you down if we miss target so badly next week, Z!” shouted Andy at her retreating back. “Doesn’t matter that you’re black, or that you dock your floater in the handicapped zone! Not this time, babe!”
“Maybe it’s Alzheimer’s,” said a voice behind her in the cafeteria. Because of her life-support module she had to eat at a special table without attached benches, and tonight her back was turned to the other employees. “Rust in the brain, that’s what they say causes it, you know.”
Zundra’s tuna fish sandwich turned to pink paste in her mouth. Scattered chuckles. “Some of the best of them go out this way-even our first string directors lose it now and again.”
With a sudden whirring of servo-motors she turned to face them. Most eyes fell, but Steve, a director with wild red hair that flipped and curled in a long ponytail down his back, smirked instead.
“I hear you ran into a little trouble with your files today,” he said.
More scattered chuckles. Coffee cups became very interesting.
“Insanity,” said Zundra simply. They all stared at her, falling quiet and still. She finally dropped her odd gaze and they all shuffled in relief.
“It makes for bad video,” she told the keyboard that was permanently mounted in front of her abdomen. Steve smiled and ate another French fry bloodied with ketchup.
“Well? Are you nuts? What’d the pysch say?” asked Andy. He perched his skinny butt on the ledge of an instrument array and swung his legs like an adolescent. Zundra could smell the chocolate that was melting in his back pocket. Her eye caught his and her face drooped. She massaged her wispy black hair with claw-like hands.
