The light on the waste tank at the foot of the machine glowed yellow, indicating matter awaiting disposal. On the side of the machine, a three liter sack floated, filled with a gray liquid and connected to the suction pump. Virgil disconnected it, grasped the intricate zero-gee transfusion tubing next to it, and entered the recovery room.
She floats so calmly, her long black hair stiff and dry in frozen sweeps
and curves. She breathes lightly, her chest rising and falling. A look so like a child I almost regret the adult I hold in the sack. Like a bottled djinn Delia, djinn and spirits to dribble inside you, an instant loss of innocence.
He fastened the needle collar to her neck and aligned the crosshairs of the device over her interior carotid artery. He activated the pressurizer in the bag, adjusted the valves in the tube, and let the device do the rest. The needle slowly jabbed into the white flesh of her throat and stopped. Some blood pumped into the tubing, past a photocell. With gentle pressure, the blood and fluid began trickling into her bloodstream.
“How long?”
“Less than fifteen minutes,” replied the computer. “Then, the period of integration will take an indeterminate amount of time.”
“Don’t you have medical files? What’s the picotech integration period for cases like this?” Fast, Delia, make it fast.
“I know of no experiment in transferring RNA to a clone. Few people could both think twelve to twenty years in advance and afford the equipment for growing and maintaining a full clone. On brainwipes, the integration period is just under a week. Since we are dealing with a clone, the time factor may be lower. It may, on the other hand, take longer. That depends on whether it is easier for the picotechs to patch the RNA onto established neural paths or to create new neural paths on a blank slate.”
“What you mean is, you don’t know.”
“Correct.”
“Should’ve said so.” Virgil left the recovery room, saying, “I’ll be back in a minute. Keep an eye on her.” The computer said nothing, but its other vidcams in the bay switched on and focused in. Virgil returned with a package of bulk protein and two bags of glucose solution and a zero-gee pump. Connecting the tube of the first bag to his wrist port, he wedged into one padded corner of the room and started nibbling at one of the protein bars. Except for an occasional trip to the head, he hovered watchfully above Delia’s clone.
The bag emptied, transfusing Delia’s persona into her clone. Virgil pulled over to disconnect it. The needle collar sealed the hole in her artery with microlasers.
No longer coral skinned, she turns to pale white. She’s been born.
He smiled. Born again.
He washed her decades-long hair and tenderly combed it out while it dried.
Hair so long that it could wrap ten times around your throat. Would you dare such a tempting of Nightsheet? How much do you remember? Me, I hope.
He trimmed her soft, corkscrewed nails, then used a microfile to shape them.
He washed her taut, muscled flesh and rubbed her with emollients.
So smooth, no traumas of youth or ravages of age. Undamaged and pristine as a marble goddess. Death Angel this is your true aspect made real.
On the second day, she moaned. He extended the water spigot to her again and she sucked slowly at it, then stopped.
“Eat,” she muttered. Virgil ripped open a package of bulk protein and held it to her lips.
Yes eat.
“Eat,” he said aloud. Her lips parted and he held the food closer. She opened her mouth wider and took a small bite, swallowing it without chewing. He continued to feed her, floating close to her, feeling the warmth from her skin. When she finished the bar, he let her wash it down with water.
He just as lovingly cleaned her whenever she soiled herself.
On the third day, after feeding her and cleaning up afterward, he sat in his corner and gazed down on her.
Death Angel don’t just lie there. “Eat” and “Drink” are all you’ve said. Don’t sleep forever. I have no magic kiss.
“Wake up, Death Angel,” he softly said.
Her eyes opened instantly and she gasped, shutting her sensitive eyes against the low lighting. She lay there, breathing rapidly.
“Virgil?” she asked through trembling lips.
“Complete integration,” the computer said.
Virgil straightened out and looked at her. “Up here,” he whispered.
Through half-closed lids she looked above her. He smiled— half in awe, half in joy. Then she screamed.
“No! ” Her arms thrashed about. She strained to kick. Suspended in the middle of the room, she had nothing to flail against and merely twisted about until her energy depleted. She began to sob and curled into a ball.
“Delia. You’re alive and safe—”
“I am not Delia.”
No, not you too. Don’t start. Don’t.
“You are Delia. Delia Trine.” What sort of deal you trying with Nightsheet? “I know. I carried you in. I took you apart. I built you again and I put you back in. You’re Delia.”
“I’m not Delia!” Her teeth clenched as she glared at him, animalistic rage and terror in her gaze. “Delia’s dead. I saw it happen. I felt it. Then I saw you tear me apart in that—thing— and now I’m here.”
“That’s why you’re Delia.” He moved closer to her, ducked to avoid the swing of a fist, and stayed back.
“You don’t understand. I’m not alone. This isn’t mine. This is”—she made a sound like bubbles churning. Her hair swirled around her as she spoke. “It belongs to her. I am she. Not Delia.”
“Whose body? I cloned you. This is you at twenty-four, untouched by all the ills.” Flesh is art, too. I made you what I want. “I want Delia!”
“She’s gone. Dead.” She threw her arms about, then pulled into a ball and whimpered, “You don’t understand, you don’t understand.”
“Apparently,” the computer interjected, “the clone developed a rudimentary consciousness in those years its brain was growing normally. The original Delia’s memory seems to be at odds with the clone’s partial self-awareness. And not as neatly compartmentalized as you and Jord.”
She spoke without moving, though her grip loosened on her legs. “Jord? He’s dead, too. We’re both dead. It’s just you and”— she made the gurgling sound again. “I hate you for what you did. I’ve got words for what I feel, now. Now that Delia’s given them to me. I was warm and com—comfortable for so long and you came and now I hurt—hunger, and now I’m thirsty. Sometimes I’m cold. And I’m dry.” She unraveled her arms and legs and stared at him.
Hate burns in her eyes like acid. I’m doing it all wrong.
He reached out for her. “I’ll comfort you, Delia. Please.”
She snarled and grabbed at his hands. With a spasmodic jerk, she propelled past him toward the hatch and yanked it open. Her clumsy movements slowed her enough for Virgil to seize her ankle. She scratched him with her nails, now dry, hard, and sharp.
“Delia!” he shouted, watching her fly away from him. The welts on his cheek burned like streaks of flame. He followed her down a curving corridor and trapped her near an axial tube. Her hair rippled and fluttered in the wind of her speed. He grabbed it and yanked.
“Killer!” she cried, turning about. They drifted together until they touched a bulkhead. She kicked off and drove her head into his stomach.
“Why, Delia?” he asked through lost breath.
“I’m not Delia!” She pounded against his chest. “Delia wants to die and I want to live. This is my body, my mind that she’s in.” Taking a double fistful of hair, she wrapped the ebon rope around his throat and snapped it tight.
Death Angel I brought you back so you could send me away? Then send me. I tried to do right and it’s wrong. Wrong. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.