The young man’s mouth twitched. “I know. But we can’t talk about it here. Come on.”
George, who had been stopped from an outburst by the same surprise as Ronnie, said plaintively, “But who are you?”
The two identical young men gave each other quick, amused glances. “Gerald Smith,” they said in unison.
Herded between the two Geralds, Ronnie and George found themselves moving along a crowded street, then into a less crowded one, and finally into a tiny tavern opening on a square with a fountain.
“I didn’t know there were places like this here,” George said, looking around. It was empty except for an aproned woman behind the bar, and the four of them. “Until now, the Guernesi have been entirely too practical for my taste—everything modern and convenient.” Ronnie wondered if his unconcerned tone fooled the Geralds—it didn’t fool him.
“This is modern and convenient,” one Gerald said. “The Guernesi simply have a different style of modern and convenient. They like small gathering places that cater to particular clients.”
“Like clones?” George said, as if determined to make a point of it.
“Clones aren’t illegal in the Guerni Republic,” the same Gerald said. “In fact, clone work groups are common, even preferred for some occupations.”
“Like abducting people?” George said. Ronnie wanted to throttle him—hadn’t he learned his lesson on the island? Did he still think he was invincible?
“The odious George,” said the other Gerald, almost affectionately. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“You are the prince’s clones,” Ronnie said. He hardly believed it, even now. They looked steadily back at him, then sighed in unison. It was eerie.
“Yes,” one of them said. “We are. Illegally created, in the Familias Regnant, to be the prince’s doubles when necessary. No one was supposed to know about us, except the necessary few.” The other one snorted, a knowing snort, and Ronnie looked at him.
“A secret kept by a couple of doctors, implant-tape technicians, the odd crown minister, the king’s immediate family, and who knows what other oddments can hardly be called a secret.”
“Did Gerel know about you?” asked Ronnie.
“Oh, yes. He thought it was some kind of game. He wished we could all be together like brothers—he missed his brothers a lot, I think—but of course that was impossible. The only times we were together, in that sense, was when we underwent the matching programming.”
“Which is?” George asked.
“Conditioning tapes shared among us, so that we all knew what the public persona was supposed to know, and anything of Gerel’s that they felt we needed. Cosmetic alterations to match appearance, following any trauma.” The clones touched the matching scars that had convinced Ronnie they had to be Gerel himself. “And no, that didn’t hurt. They were humane, our controllers, if you look at it that way.”
“I don’t think I do,” said George. “It doesn’t seem fair—”
They both shrugged. “No one chooses a birth,” the one on the left said. “It was a better life than many. Privilege, wealth, an endless party in a way. You know that.”
“Yes.” Ronnie found it hard to remember clearly how he had thought two years ago—it was embarrassing, really—but he knew he, like the prince, had assumed limitless privilege, boundless wealth, and constant entertainment were his birthright.
“I owe you an apology, really,” said the one on the right.
“For threatening me?”
“No . . . for causing trouble between you and the prince. The quarrel was really my fault,” the clone said. He traced designs on the tabletop with the condensation from his beer mug. “Gerel Prime had lost interest in that singer months before, but I hadn’t. Her voice—I don’t know what you did in your time with her, but I was learning opera, you see. She thought it was touching that the prince really cared about music. I prolonged the relationship, so it overlapped with yours. You were jealous, I think—and she certainly found you a better bed partner than I, who cared only for her voice.”
“If you’ll excuse my mentioning it,” George said, “you seem to be . . . er . . . brighter than the prince was toward the end.”
“We’re clones, but we’re not the same person he was. We can’t be. Identical twins—bionatural clones—were like that too. Each an individual person, even if outsiders couldn’t tell them apart. We have similarities built into the genome, but we’re not determined. I happen to love old-fashioned opera; the prince himself had an ear for music, but preferred instrumental.”
“And that’s that Gerald,” the other said. “I too have the inborn ear for music, but my preference is far more popular; since I’ve been here I’ve discovered casanegra, which they tell me is descended from an entirely different Old Terran tradition than opera.”
Ronnie glanced from one to the other. “I can’t deal with this Gerald A. and Gerald B.,” he said. “If you don’t help me out, I swear I’ll give you nicknames, both rude.”
“You forget,” the clone said, “that we’re armed and dangerous.”
“So shoot me,” Ronnie said. “But I’m not going to struggle with it.” The clones looked at each other, and finally nodded.
The one on the left spoke first. “I’m Andres and he’s Borhes. Borhes and opera; Andres and casanegra, if you can keep that straight.”
“I don’t see why, if you’re clones, you’re not identical mentally as well,” George said. “What’s the use if you’re not?”
“Identity is more than genes,” Andres said. “I didn’t understand it all myself, until the medical experts here explained it as they tried to figure out which of us was which. I always knew who I was, even when others got us confused. And Bor knew, and . . . and the others, whatever names they might have chosen, if they’d had the chance. And Gerel I suppose.”
“When he wasn’t so confused he didn’t know day from night,” Borhes put in. “And in case you wondered, apparently we never got the full dose of the drugs used on Gerel. They tell us we’re normal. But even though we’re identical at the genetic level, developmentally there are always minute differences in brain structure resulting from exactly which neurons connect with which in what order.”
“But why didn’t you tell Captain Serrano which was which when she came to take the prince for medical treatment? Or at least explain once you were here? It might have saved—”
“I don’t see why we should care,” Andres said. “They had us made for their own selfish reasons—yes, we enjoyed a life that was mostly pleasurable, but we had no freedom. Why should we risk anything to help them?”
“I suppose I thought you were a gentleman,” said George. Andres laughed unkindly.
“Gentlemen? Clones? I suppose in the historical sense we are, if you think it’s all in the blood, but otherwise absolutely not. Not if you mean some ridiculous code of behavior—”
“Which, after all, our Prime didn’t adhere to, as you know very well.” Borhes grinned at Ronnie. “I don’t know what Gerel would have been if he hadn’t been drugged, but on the whole he was as little bound by notions of duty as anyone I ever knew. You at your worst were a paragon of dedication beside him.”
George flushed, and turned to Ronnie. “I thought your aunt said they were nice young men.”
“She also said she was sure that the one who was killed was Gerel himself. A fool, but a noble fool.” Ronnie took another direction. “Look—you remember Captain Serrano.”
The clones exchanged glances. Andres finally answered. “Of course. An . . . unusual person, we thought.”
Undoubtedly. Ronnie wondered if she’d treated them to any of the special methods she’d used on him. “What did you think of her?”
Again the quick exchange of glances; this time Borhes spoke. “Well . . . unusual, as Andres said. Intelligent, perhaps a bit stuffy the way Fleet officers often are.”