confused, the agent let Nakamura steer him away.
When Reggie was sure they’d tread out of earshot, he patted the wall. “I brought you something.” He pulled a flexible digital organizer from his pocket and turned it on. “This is C. C, say hello to the next generation.”
“It’s in the ships?” C asked.
“Yes. It’s going to the star. And a clone of Jamal Kaeden will go with it.”
“Wow. Hi.”
“Hello,” said the Inter Convoy Computer. “I do not have a record of visiting guest, ‘C.’”
“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” said Reggie. “I.C.C., are you holoflex-ware compatible?”
“Of course. You need to use an available terminal, but any crew member may upload information.”
He didn’t have authorization for this. If Nakamura caught him …
“What’s the plan, sir?” asked C. Blue dots and green leaves bounded across the holoflex-screen—C’s new avatar of choice.
“I.C.C. is built on your basic coding,” Reggie explained, searching for the nearest access point. “I want to give it your memories, too. With your permission.”
“You don’t need my permission, sir.”
“I know, but … this isn’t like backing you up, C. I’m sending your memories off-world. I hope I.C.C. might find them useful.”
C let a beat pass. “I hope it finds them useful as well.”
A slight recess in the wall marked the nearest terminal. Intuitive in its layout, the access point was easy for Reggie to utilize. The striking of a few keys, a swipe of the ‘flex-tech—and a confirmation ding meant the task was completed. I.C.C. thanked Reggie for the upload and asked if it should integrate the memories now.
“Wait until launch,” he said, turning C off.
Thick paneling and stiff carpeting went by in a blur as he jogged ahead to meet up with Nakamura. “So, all of the ships have officially been christened?” he asked seamlessly, as though he’d never left her side.
“Yes.” Nakamura produced a list. “It was kind of you to let the existing clones vote on the ship names.”
Reggie shrugged. “Just made sense. They’re the ones that have to live with the titles.”
She nodded in agreement. “This is Mira,” she said, waving a hand in illustration. “Holwarda is our science and observations ship, Hippocrates is the medical ship, Aesop will be the educational vessel, Morgan will be for food production, Solidarity is for recycling and fabricating, Bottomless is for the storage of raw and reconstituted materials, Shambhala is for recreation, and Eden is their little slice of the outdoors. That’s it. All nine.
“Mira is the ship your genes will be spending most of their time on, isn’t it?” she added.
“Probably,” he said. “I discovered the star and yet the genetic specialists say my histones indicate my code is best suited for leadership, not scientific research.”
“Well, you led us straight as an arrow,” Nakamura said. “Our project is nearly on its way, and the Dark Matter team still hasn’t produced the final schematics for its ships.”
A genuine blush creeped into his cheeks. “They haven’t released the manifest yet—which position did you receive?”
“An expected one: head engineer. She’ll be looking over a large department, I hear. Their main function will be ship maintenance and repair, but, if there’s a Dyson Sphere, or something …”
“Then it’s lock-n-load.” He peered in a window as they passed. It was dark inside, but he could make out the faint shapes of built-in furniture. “What about Sachta, Donald, and Norah? They haven’t said anything directly, but there have been hints and rumors.”
“Diego Santibar, too. He and Norah, being resource specialists, are assigned to food production and mineral mining respectively. Matheson I don’t know. Dr. Dhiri refused to sign the contract.”
“She did? How come?”
“Religious purposes. She’s a practicing Hindu and wasn’t sure what would happen to her if she died while a clone was still alive.” Nakamura cleared her throat. “She was afraid she wouldn’t be reborn.”
Reggie understood. “I almost didn’t sign.”
“You? I was sure you’d have jumped up and down shouting, Pick me, pick me!”
“Ah, no. If it was me they wanted to send, well, maybe. But it’s not. And it didn’t feel right to make the choice for someone else. It still doesn’t feel quite right. I didn’t want to rob someone of their freedom to choose, the freedoms we have to stand up for ourselves and say Yes, this is what I want. He doesn’t get that opportunity.”
Nakamura frowned. “Not everyone here gets that, Reggie.” She laughed, but without mirth, and shook her head. “I didn’t get to choose. My government made the decision for me.” With a calculated sigh, she squinted and smacked her lips. Akane could say so much with just her eyes. “You’re so American sometimes.”
“They made you sign?”
“I didn’t want to sign,” she said bluntly. “There’s only one of me and there should only ever be one of me. It’s not a religious decision, like Sachta’s, but it’s what I believe. I’ve lived my whole life believing this is all I get, all I should get. I don’t want other people out there who look and think and act like me making decisions in my name without my input. That’s just … it’s creepy. It doesn’t feel right.
“But, in my country, when it’s your duty to your people to say yes, you say yes. Sure, I still technically got to choose, but it’s not the same as in the US. Where I come from, even when it’s okay to say no, it never comes out as no. ‘No’ is impolite, self-serving. My answers don’t just affect me, they affect my entire family—their honor, their place. Saying yes means they will live well for a long time. Refusal would have shamed them. I didn’t want to be selfish.”
She plucked a hair off her suit jacket and looked away. “Your life doesn’t revolve around honor and duty in quite the same way mine always has. It is a great privilege to fulfill that duty, but it’s not always what I want.”
A nugget of guilt formed in Reggie’s stomach. If Nakamura felt forced into this situation, wouldn’t her clones feel similarly? Maybe he’d made the wrong choice for his genetic materials. He wanted to go into space, but perhaps he’d been influenced that way as a young boy. His clones wouldn’t have his parents to give them star charts and books on planetary formation. There wouldn’t be plastic glow-stars on their bedroom ceilings.
And beyond all that, they wouldn’t have the wonder. Because space would be their norm, not a farfetched, out-of-reach dream.
He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t find the appropriate words. It wasn’t an apology, or even his sympathies he wanted to offer. It was something more abstract, and simultaneously more primal. “Akane, I—”
“What’s done is done,” she said. “And there are far worse fates.”
Perspective. Yes, he supposed he could use a dose of that. The clones weren’t going off to war, weren’t being asked to commit atrocities or surrender their humanity for an experiment. They were going to be researchers, explorers. They would go down in history like great thinkers and travelers before them. Not such a bad life.
But still, choices were important to him. And he couldn’t shake the regret.
Nakamura