Каарон Уоррен - The Lowest Heaven

DAVID BRYHER

Ted had always preferred his own company, but this was ridiculous.

“What should I call you?”

“Ted.”

“That’s a bit weird.”

“Was this not explained to you in orientation? FentiCorp don’t let clones mix with friends and relatives of the donor. There’s no need to…”

Ted raised his hand. “No, it’s okay. I remember. It’s still weird. I mean, I can’t call you Ted.”

“You don’t need to call me anything. You’ll depart in a day or two. We don’t need to see each other again.”

“After this,” Ted said, glancing at the steaming pot of coffee on the white plastic table, at the empty sofa opposite his own.

“After this,” his clone replied with a nod. “May I…?”

“Oh, feel free.” Ted waved at the other sofa, then slumped back into the cushions. He puffed out his cheeks and ignored the cold knot that was developing in his stomach. He didn’t know what to say next.

“Coffee?” his clone asked, leaning forward to pour two cups anyway. He handed one to Ted. “So, as you understand, we’re here to discuss any physical or mental peculiarities of this body. The kind of thing that only an experienced user would know. What can you tell me?”

Ted sipped from his cup and the coffee tasted dark and rich and chocolatey. The Trident had the best coffee he’d tasted in the solar system. He was going to miss that, for a start. He wondered if he could take some with him.

He licked his lips, then replied, “Your knees are going to ache in wet weather. Don’t ask me why◦– they always have. And if you’re going to be sat down a lot, get a chair with lumbar support.”

“FentiCorp do not currently deploy their clones in office positions.”

Ted stared hard at the black liquid in his cup. “No,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m sorry, of course they don’t.”

“You’re sorry? Are you feeling guilty?” The clone’s voice was light, almost surprised.

“You don’t even talk like me.”

“That’s not answering the question.”

“So what am I now, some sort of counsellor?”

“In FentiCorp’s experience, donors sometimes find it easier to open up to their clones.”

“A counsellor who talks like I’m in marketing or something.”

There was a brief pause. The clone was trying not to smile. Ted looked away.

“Don’t worry about me,” the clone said. “I’ll be fine.”

Ted nodded. Sniffed. Why was his nose runny all of a sudden? “Is this going to take long? What else do you need?”

“Are there any psychological triggers I need to be aware of?”

“I went through all this with the agent, like a hundred times.”

“Of course. But in FentiCorp’s experience, donors–”

“Or maybe I’m someone who just reads out what I’m told to?” Ted was getting a headache. Do I sound this annoying all the time?

The clone paused. “You’re not too keen on proper procedures, I take it.”

Ted shrugged.

The clone looked at the bulging blue bruise on the inside of his wrist, poked it with a finger and frowned. Ted could see the small incision, where the medibot had inserted the failsafe capsule. “If you’re not happy with the arrangement–”

“Who is?” Ted tried to ignore the buzzing waves of nausea coursing through his body. “There can’t be a single person passing through this place who’s happy about being here.”

“I wouldn’t know,” the clone said, turning his mirror gaze straight on Ted. “I haven’t been here long.”

The blue blur of Neptune slid by underneath them, a faintly curved horizon slanting across the gallery window in the bar. The twisting ribbons of the planet’s atmosphere glowed in the spotlights on the underside of the Trident. It was an unsettling sight. It seemed too close. Ted thought he should hear the planet roar.

His footsteps clicked on the marble floor as he entered the room. Unidentifiable music drifted through the still, cool air. Above the bar hung an illuminated canopy, twinkling with a thousand champagne-coloured shards of glass. Glowing in the golden light beneath, there was a selection of just about every alcohol imaginable.

The décor aimed for rich and sumptuous but it fell short. With laughter and the chink of glasses and a little bit of warmth, maybe it would get there. But the Trident wasn’t a busy hotel right now◦– Ted wondered if it ever was◦– and of the couple of dozen tables here, only one was occupied.

As he reached the bar, he glanced out of the window again. A shadow was biting at the stars. (And he tried to ignore the one, slightly brighter dot in the distance. The Sun, so far behind him.) The silhouette of a new ship, coming in to dock. At least the Trident would have more guests soon.

He wondered who they might be. He wondered if they’d meet. He wondered if there was any point.

There was no server at the bar; you were supposed to just help yourself. Despite the price he had paid to stay here, and for FentiCorp’s services, he still felt awkward about that, so he poured himself a modest gin from a gem-blue bottle, then smothered it with tonic. He took a couple of deep swallows before he went to join Marco at the table.

“How did it go?” Marco’s eyes reflected the shimmering gold light from the bar. “Everything okay?”

“I guess. Well. It was a bit…” He put his drink down and turned the glass this way and that, staring at the clear liquid. “I mean, didn’t you find it weird?”

Marco shrugged and sipped at his own drink. “We’re outta here,” he said, flicking his fingers towards the window. “What does it matter?”

Ted gulped at his gin again. Marco drained his own glass, then slipped into the next chair round the table, closer to Ted. He put his hand on his knee. “Make it better?” Marco’s eyes sparkled in the dim light of the bar. Oh, those champagne eyes.

Ted laughed. He leant over and kissed him. “Not tonight, babe.”

Marco’s hand climbed higher. “You can’t refuse a man on his last night in the solar system.”

“Second to last.”

“Details.” Higher still. “We’re condemned men now. Nothing left to live for. Nobody looking over our shoulder. May as well enjoy the freedom.”

Ted shuffled his leg away. “Seriously,” he said, trying to inject amusement into his voice but◦– really? Condemned? “Just leave it, Marco.”

Marco stiffened and sat upright. “Fine.”

“Don’t be like that. It’s been a weird day.”

“Sure it has, yeah.”

“Marco, baby.”

Marco pushed his empty glass into the centre of the table. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

Condemned. Like what? Like the way a building is condemned? Uninhabitable. Unsafe. Ready for demolition.

Or like a soul is condemned?

Ted hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d come back to find Marco in bed, sleeping◦– or, more likely, pretending to sleep. He’d lain down next to him, but his thoughts would not lie down too.

Ted was annoyed. He didn’t like being unable to sleep, and on the rare occasions insomnia had troubled him, it was because there were too many thoughts whirling round his head. The last time, it had been when they were first talking about selling their liferights. All those things to think about: what would their friends say? Their family? Could they afford to buy passage out of the system? Did they even really want to leave, knowing they wouldn’t be welcome back? They would have to give up everything, but was it worth it? It was no wonder Ted lost a few nights’ sleep to that decision.

But tonight, there was just the one thought. And that single thought wouldn’t let in any others, and it roared like Neptune should be roaring.

They were leaving behind their bodies. What remained after that was condemned.