Your One & Only(68)

The clones take care of us, though, in our afflictions. They revere us in their own cold, detached way.

I asked Elan why he wanted to leave—the clones always seem content with each other. I had no idea the Elans were unhappy. He told me about a disagreement among the clone groups.

“You know how we play music at the dances,” he said. “The others want to erase music from the genetic code of the new Elan generations. They say it’s a waste. They think they’ve isolated the trait, and in its place they want to implant something useful for work in the labs. That’s not what we want, and the disagreement has become intolerable. Some of us have decided to leave and make our own way.”

I told him I’d help in any way I could.

I hope the Elans do get away and start something new. I hope they make a better world than we did—this stagnant, rigid community full of these alien creatures, a mockery of everything human.




November 13, 2106

They are monsters.

They’ve killed their own. Hundreds at once. Last year’s babies, all dead. The Elan clone, the one who told me he was leaving, his whole generation is dead. And the new Althea clones, because of the birthmarks . . .

Inga and Kate tried to stop them. They were in the nursery when it happened, and they threw themselves in the path of the clones, desperately trying to shield the babies, and now they’re dead too. The clones killed them both.

They keep us locked in the residences now, but one of the first generation finally showed up after I’d requested to meet with them countless times. It could have been the one I used to call Rose, but who can tell? They don’t want us to be able to tell them apart. They’re disturbed by the very notion.

When she arrived, I asked her how the clones could have done such a thing.

“They failed to meet our genetic standards,” she said. “We want only to improve upon ourselves. You’re the one who taught us about natural selection.”

“This isn’t natural!” I said.

She took down the photograph I keep on my bookshelf, the one from ’77 of me and Hassan and everyone else on the project so long ago, after the first generation was born.

“Una Vispa taught us that humanity should be enhanced, that we should create a suitable culture,” she said. “Well, we’ve done exactly that. These are our enhancements, this is our culture. What made you think they’d be the same ones you wanted?”

She handed the picture back to me, and I gazed down at it. Tears came to my eyes. So long ago. We looked so happy, so hopeful.

“We will always honor you,” she said. “You gave us our start. But we will shape the future in our own way.”

They threw the bodies in a pit and set fire to them, as if they were no more than cut logs. They don’t care. We can make more, they say. A new batch. The cookies are burned, let’s start again. Plenty of eggs, ha ha.

The smell lingers. It won’t wash out of the curtains.

I never imagined, with so many of them now, they would end up seeing these lives they’ve created as disposable.

I’m surprised they tried to explain at all. The horror on our faces meant nothing to them.




January 29, 2107

There are just the three of us now, myself, Mei, and Carson.

We found a note tacked to Samuel’s door this morning: “Gone rock climbing.” We know he won’t be back.

I’ve decided I have to stop them.

The last straw was when a Nyla clone asked me yesterday how many human samples are stored in the Ark. I turned away without answering. I’ve heard them talking; I know what they want. They don’t want to repopulate the earth, which they’re perfectly capable of doing now if they wanted. They could create more clones, and with enough variation, they could continue toward sexual reproduction the way we wanted them to. But no. They want to use whatever humanity has left to give. They want to use the genetic material in the Ark to integrate it into their own, twisting and shaping it to their own ends.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t want them to make more of us. The Original Ten will all be dead soon, and the clones should die with us. I’m going to destroy our genetic samples. They’re kept in the lab with the tanks, and I think I can destroy those too. I don’t know what they’ll do to us when they find out. We’re too ravaged by the effects of the Plague for our genetic material to be of any use. They need the stored material, from when we were young.

In any case, without the original samples, they’re finished. They’ve altered their genetic code so much that making more clones from their own corrupt cells will be impossible.

I’m the one that has to do it. I don’t care if the clones kill me, and Mei and Carson are too weak. It is my own hell, to know my responsibility in their creation.

Mei says what I want to do is cruel, but I can’t understand how she thinks that while the stench of more burning bodies permeates the air out our window. I refuse to let this continue.

I talked to Carson last night. If I don’t succeed, he’s promised to destroy the Ark if it’s the last thing he does. Without the original samples, they might turn to the stored human samples to survive, and I can’t let them do that.

After I destroy the samples, I know I should destroy myself. I’ve been lucky, I’m not as bad off as the others. But because of that, I worry there’s a distant possibility that my skin, my hair, something in my cells might allow them to clone more Altheas. Perhaps turning my body to ashes is the sacrifice I must make for everything that’s happened. I think back to who I was when this started, how I thought this project was what I was born to do. I think about what I would say to Hassan if he were here. I would tell him that I finally understand what destiny is. I understand that my destiny is my own and, though I had a role in giving life to the clones, I also have a role in ending them.