“And my Aunt Cecelia? I know she talked to all of you.”
Borhes looked thoughtful. “She’s your aunt? I didn’t realize that. She’s the one who told the king our Prime was not normal, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.” Ronnie said no more. They seemed willing enough to rattle on; let them rattle.
“I liked her,” Borhes said. It sounded real. “She told us we shouldn’t go back; she told us we could make a better life here.”
“And she was right,” Andres said. “The Guernesi have given us limited citizenship—we can get full rights in five years if we’re employed and have a clean legal record. Clones are not only legal, but valued. We’d be crazy to go back.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to go back,” Ronnie said. Had they thought he might? Had that been the core of their resistance? “My aunt would skin me if I did.” They grinned at him. “But in your position you might have heard things—things we need to know now, that might help us hold the alliances together. That’s what I’d like to ask you about.”
Borhes shook his head. “We’re a lot safer if we don’t know anything—if we did know, did remember, and told you, then the next person who wanted to know mightn’t be so friendly. Surely you can see that.”
He could. He could imagine a whole series of people who would think the clones must certainly know . . . some of them very rough indeed.
“But we wouldn’t have to tell anyone where we got the information,” George said.
The clones merely looked at him. Of course that wasn’t enough. Of course they wouldn’t trust that. Would they trust anything?
The clones’ apartment, when they reached it, was a decent-sized three-rooms-with-bath in an area they said housed many students. Ronnie had tried to convince himself to bolt on the way there—surely the clones wouldn’t really kill them. If nothing else it would interfere with their citizenship application. But the Gerel who had thrown himself on the gas grenade on Sirialis was dead, from another gallant act: these were only clones, who had already made it clear their ethics did not match Gerel’s.
“We’ll think of something,” Andres said that first night. “We would prefer not to kill you; we’re not experienced at this sort of thing and we might botch disposing of your bodies. That way you’d cause us even more trouble. Maybe we can get hold of some drugs to alter your memories or something. In the meantime—” In the meantime meant uncomfortable positions, tethered back to back.
The next morning, Borhes raided their pockets. “Sorry,” he said. “But we don’t have enough money to feed you and us, and I presume you’re hungry.”
“We are expected back at the Institute,” George said.
“Thanks for reminding us,” Andres said, grinning. “I think you need to send a message saying you went somewhere and won’t be back for a few decads, at least. Let’s see . . . what might two wealthy young men do on this planet besides hang around here? Bor, pick up a travel cube, why don’t you?”
With the threat of imminent death, Ronnie found he was quite willing to contact the hotel and explain that they had decided on a tour—no, hold their luggage, they were going horse-packing and would have to buy the survival gear they needed closer to the trailhead. George grimaced when Ronnie got through. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t go for that cruise,” he said. “If anyone asks, Andres, they’ll know it wasn’t us. Ronnie and me riding horses in the mountains?”
“The cruise ship has constant contact with the shore; it would be easy enough to transfer a query. We inquired, and this tour company offers a real wilderness experience. No comsets at all.” Andres smiled. “No one from the Familias is going to try—if they call the hotel, they’ll be told you’re out of the city, touring. It costs too much, and takes too long, to have a realtime conversation.”
Over the next few days, George kept after the clones whenever he was awake, pointing out repeatedly that they had no plan, that they couldn’t hold prisoners in an apartment forever, that someone would eventually find out.
“We could kill you,” Andres said finally, in a temper. “At least we wouldn’t have to listen to you, even in prison.”
“You don’t want to kill us,” George said. “You know that; you’ve said that. What you want is decent anonymity, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then get plastic surgery.” The clones looked at each other, then back at George.
“We like being clones; we’re used to it.”
“Fine. I’m not asking you to change that . . . but get enough change so that you don’t look like Gerel to any casual tourist from the Familias who might happen into a taverna and see you. You can kill us, of course, and you may be right that my father wouldn’t be able to find you or extradite you, but if Familias visitors start dying off, the Guernesi are going to notice.”
“And you already told us they have a very efficient law-enforcement system,” Ronnie added.
The clones looked at each other again. “We’re used to looking like this,” Borhes said.
“You’re also used to being mistaken for Gerel,” George said. “But you don’t like it. Just a little change—enough that the Familias crown prince isn’t the first person that pops into mind when you’re seen. Then you could be a normal clone pair here, and no one would ever know.”
“Except you two,” Andres said.
“And my Aunt Cecelia, and Captain Serrano,” Ronnie said. “They haven’t spread it around—why do you think we would?”
Andres laughed unpleasantly. “Ronnie—I know you too well. Remember the Royals?”
Ronnie felt himself flushing. “I was a silly young ass then.”
“And you are suddenly a wise old graybeard?”
“No. But if I couldn’t be discreet, I’d never have gotten my aunt out of that nursing home.”
“She didn’t tell us that.” Were they interested, or just pretending? It didn’t matter; Ronnie was more than willing to keep talking if it gave him a chance to live longer.
He spun the tale out, emphasizing everyone’s role: George spreading the rumors about a “drop-in” party at the facility that had created the confusion, Brun with her hot air balloon modified with unobtrusive steering apparatus, and the scramble to get his aunt into it. He hadn’t told even George all the details, his mingled terror and disgust as he unhooked Cecelia from her medical monitors and dressed her.
“And what did you do then?” asked Andres when he had gotten as far, in the story, as leaving the parking lot at the facility.
“Went home, got out my parasail, and joined our crowd for a party at the beach.” The police had found him there sometime after midnight, with witnesses to say he’d been there since late afternoon. And the facility staff had checked him out as he left there, alone. “They knew she hadn’t walked off by herself, and they suspected that she’d been—abducted was the word they used—during the Festival, when so many balloons were around. But they couldn’t prove anything against me. I kept expecting the attendant who had set up the tape loop to accuse me, but he disappeared. They claimed they had no tape records of any of the patients for that day—that something had happened to them—and Mother threatened to sue them for negligence. I was afraid if she did they’d search harder and find them. Perhaps the attendant ran off with them when he realized Cecelia was gone and his job was forfeit.”
“And you didn’t confide in anyone?”
“No. It was too dangerous. George knew or suspected that I had something to do with it, but all he’d been told beforehand was to spread those rumors. I knew Brun was going to take Cecelia out in the balloon, but not where—I could guess it was to her family’s private shuttle, but from there—I didn’t know.”
“You would claim this proves your ability to keep secrets?”