Bright Star (4 page)

With Prince in my arms, I exit the hall, and find myself on a small suspended sidewalk. Under and around me yawns all the magnificence of the Main Bridge.

This level extends through an open space that would normally be equivalent to two or three regular levels. Suspended walkways, spiral staircases, and huge platforms cross the dark, immense space, and the depth of Outside seems to swallow me from the enormous transparent slices in the distant ceiling. Galaxies and constellations provide the only illumination. Over my head, Outside shines with a trillion stars, and I stagger, dizzy. Gravity seems too weak and I panic. At once, I’m sure the force of attraction is not sufficient to keep my feet on the platform. I can’t grab the handrail, because Prince is in my arms, so I lean on the wall behind me. I close my eyes for three deep breaths.

“Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

I flinch at the sound of my own voice. I spoke to Prince many times while he was asleep, but doing it now seems so strange. Disrespectful, maybe. However, he continues to shake, his face buried on my shoulder, and I doubt he can hear me.

Prince’s fragility terrifies me. Inside his sarcophagus he was unchanging and eternal, like Ship and like the stars. It was enough to control the lights to keep him safe. Now his survival is literally in my arms and a red-hot blade of anxiety slices through my belly.

“Better to move.”

I start to walk, unstable at the beginning, but more confident as I realize gravity works. I move toward one of the housing districts, irregular clusters that seem suspended in the air. Since the elevators throughout this section have been disabled, I begin to climb a flight of suspended stairs.

Blasius told me that once stairs and bridges moved on their own, carrying people where they wanted to go without them having to take a step, but I’ve always been quite skeptical about this fact. Wasting so much energy just to spare a walk? What did they fill their lives with, if they weren’t even walking? People who once lived inside Ship were quite strange, though.

After a long climb, I finally reach one of the luxurious quarters atop the housing district. In all the accommodations on this level, the doors are open and the environments have been completely cleared out, leaving rooms similar to empty shells, so I can go wherever I want. I enter one of the residential units. In front of me, in the darkness barely dissipated by the stars peeping through the transparent sections of the ceiling, opens an empty space, punctuated by arcs and intricate clusters of columns. A circular depression opens in the floor at my feet. I know that holes like these were pools filled with real water, because Blasius told me, but the reason why anyone would keep a tank of water in his housing unit escapes me.

I walk across the huge hall. Only one or two high-ranking people lived in all this space, Blasius said. I never believed this, either. Apartments like these contain a dozen cubicles for servant clones, and I just can’t understand how so many clones could serve a single human being. Maybe Blasius was making fun of me.

I keep walking, but at once an apparition makes me shout in terror.

I stop, shocked.

A monstrous, gigantic thing rises from the transparent slices in the ceiling. First it is just a crescent, but then it grows gradually, until it almost completely prevents my view of Outside. The enormous thing hangs over Ship as if about to fall, flows over my head, then begins to descend to the other side.

It is a huge, circular object, greenish, with pipes, vents, antennas, hatches, and Corp knows what else sprouting from its surface. The surface is metal. I can recognize the metal.

Slowly, I understand.

This is another Ship.

This is Alien Ship, orbiting around us.

My voice trembling and scared, I moan, “Oh, Corp.”

I
FIND
a cubicle. Here even the servants’ cubicles are luxurious. This is twice the size of mine, and a strip of transparent ceiling opens above it. All the systems are turned off; the sanitizer and the goods chutes don’t work, of course, but the cot is still in place, being embedded in the bulkhead. Thanks to weak gravity, not that much dust has settled, and I brush all of it away before depositing Prince on the bare padding foam.

I free Prince’s face from his hair, and his eyes are closed. He curls up on the mattress and starts shaking so hard I fear the electricity that hit him inside the sarcophagus still wanders through him. His skin is gray and cold. I have to warm him up somehow, but I have nothing to cover him with.

I’m afraid. I yank off my uniform top and use it to cover him, but it’s a ridiculously small garment. In the end, I climb on the bed and clench Prince’s stiff body to my chest. I don’t know what else to do.

His cold cheek presses on my bare chest. I squeeze his limp body against mine and stroke his back; I take his hands and massage them until a bit of warmth returns to his fingers.

His body has the same consistency as mine. This amazes me. I thought he could be a kind of statue, different, even though I don’t know exactly how. His arms and his hands, although small and delicate, are just like mine. His nails are long and white and protrude from the tips of his fingers, and I wonder if they grew during the long period of suspended animation. Same thing for his hair, a mysterious golden thing made of silk threads. I know silk. Blasius told me silk is the delicate cocoon the caterpillar weaves around its body to become a moth. As it dries up, Prince’s hair becomes exactly like silk.

Slowly, very slowly, his tremors decrease, but I keep massaging and squeezing him. For a moment the close contact with his body also lowers my temperature, but as I continue, as I study his limbs and his bones with analytic curiosity, the heat comes over me again and my face and chest are on fire. Prince’s trembling vanishes, apart from an occasional jolt.

I check his face, still resting on my collarbone, and I jump, realizing that not only are his eyes wide open, but he’s watching me carefully from among the silk of his hair.

“Who are you?”

Oh, Corp. He talks!

His voice is feeble and hoarse, but he talks, and I can understand him.

“I’m your guardian angel. Don’t worry. You are safe now.”

Awkwardly, he raises a hand and moves a lock of hair from his face. His first movement, apart from the trembling.

Prince blinks, focusing on me.

Damn, I never saw his eyes. They are different from mine. Green. I know the green color—the color of the lights when everything works—but I’ve never seen a green like that. Deep, liquid, profound, with particles drifting inside. It enchants me.

Prince speaks again.

In my dreams, whenever he woke up, he asked me different things. He smiled, or was angry, and sometimes cried; most of the times he wondered where he was and why. Over the years, in the course of my whole life, he wanted to know a lot of things. But he never asked a question like this.

Looking at me, Prince asks, “Who am I?”

I
CHALLENGE
any person in my position not to freak out.

I wake up in a dark, empty room, abandoned. I’m naked. A shirtless stranger—a clone—hugs me tightly. And I don’t remember a fucking thing.

I sit up abruptly, a scream caught in my throat. “Who am I?” I repeat, my voice rough, raspy, but high in pitch with fear.

I don’t remember. I really don’t remember who I am.

“Do not worry. I think it’s normal,” the clone says, sitting up too. I don’t like clones, but he seems gentle.

How the hell do I know I don’t like clones if I can’t remember who I am?

“That is, it’s logical,” he continues. “You’ve been in suspended animation an awful long time. Your memories will come back soon. I think.”

I brush my hair out of my face and swallow. “Suspended animation…?”

The clone glances at me with deep, dark eyes. “Yes.”

The memory of an unpleasant event makes its way into me. I shudder. “They slammed me into that sarcophagus.” My voice trembles. “I screamed for them not to. Soldier clones, like you.”

He startles. “I assure you it wasn’t me. You’ve been inside your sarcophagus for… well, for a long time.”

“How long?”

He looks away but answers my question. “Ninety-four broad cycles, or terrestrial years.”

“Ninety-four?” My head spins. I pass my hands over my face. “I was locked in that coffin for
ninety-four years?”

A hesitant smile. He blinks, as if incredulous to see me, talk to me. “Yes. But I’m here. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I’m your guardian angel.”

Guardian angel. This damn room is dark, but the clone seems terribly young.

Another flashback. Me pushed down in the coffin, my father yelling, my mother crying, me screaming they couldn’t do this to me. No, not to me, what the hell.

But they did.

I feel sick. I have to throw up.

Okay. I close my eyes and drive away the memory. I’m fine this way. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember a fucking thing.

I whisper, “I’m so cold.”

Immediately, the clone closes his arms around me. And I like this, even if I fear the clones. The tiny room is lit only by what looks like a trillion stars shining from a window in the ceiling. I scrutinize him. I wasn’t wrong. His eyes are gentle.

I say, “You aren’t like all the other clones.”

He frowns a little and says nothing. Something is wrong with him. He’s really tall and his shoulders are pleasantly broad, like his hands, but he’s pale and thin and malnourished. And he’s young.

I tilt my head to study him. “Soldier clones, they are without feelings. Their aggressiveness is increased with Y-chromosomes in excess. But you seem gentle.”

I swear I don’t know how I can remember all of this. But I’m refusing to remember just what I don’t want to remember. My identity, and the reason I’m here, are just below the surface, and for the moment I want to keep them so.

He frowns. “Why do you say I am a soldier clone?”

“You have a mark,” I say, touching the genetically imprinted mark on his right bicep. “
S
for soldier.”

His puzzlement is staggering.

“There are many types of clones. Servants, laborers, mutants able to work in nuclear power plants—they are terrible—and also soldiers. But you don’t look at all like a soldier, apart from your mark. No, don’t leave me. I’m still cold.”

His arms, fallen sideways as he gapes in amazement, rise to hold me tight. I cuddle against his chest. I close my eyes. And I see my father’s face bending over me, inside the sarcophagus lid, mouthing the words, “At least the suspended animation will cleanse you from all the shit in your blood.”

I press my face against the clone’s neck and caress his bare chest. His skin is smooth and hairless under my palm.

It works. The bad memory frays and dissolves.

But the clone trembles slightly. I’m scaring him, maybe. “What’s your name?” I ask gently. “And how old are you?”

“Phaedrus—Phae—and I should be more or less nineteen broad cycles.”

“I don’t remember my name,” I say firmly. It’s a lie. Maybe I could remember my name and my age, but I don’t want to.

He smiles. “Don’t worry. You’ll remember. I always called you Prince.”

I raise my face from his neck and look at him. He’s handsome, genetically perfected. His features are regular, though a bit too sharp. Straight nose and strong chin like the ancient Greek statues that provided the classical beauty canons. I touch his smooth cheek. In clones, facial and body hair have been genetically eliminated. Perhaps this is why he continues to touch my hair without realizing it. I follow the path of his upper lip with my fingertip. His lips are a bit chapped. Then I meet his eyes. Clones’ eyes are icy and cold as a glass bottle. His are deep, warm and frightened. He’s scared. I’m scaring him.

“What is a guardian angel, Phae?”

“My sole purpose is to watch over you during your sleep,” he says, as if reciting from a manual.

“Do you have to watch over me even when I’m awake?”

He looks puzzled for a moment. “I’m not sure.” His arms start to fall again. I need his arms to forget myself inside.

“Please, hold me, I’m still cold. Why are you trembling? Don’t you like hugging me?”

Maybe it goes against his duties, kind of. Clones are trained hard for specific tasks, and often they screw up if forced to do something different.

He shakes his head. “No. I think instead it’s because I like it too much.”

I raise my eyebrows at him.

He swallows, and I watch as his Adam’s apple goes up and down. “I spent hours—years—staring at you behind that glass. I can’t believe you’re here in my arms.”

“How long were you watching me, Phae?”

His eyes widen in confusion. “How long…?”

“How long have you been my guardian angel?”

Surely no more than a few years. He’s just a boy.

He blinks. “I’ve just said it. I’m nineteen.”

“I know,” I begin, with patience. “I understood you’re nineteen. I asked when you started your task.”

He shrugs. “The day I was born.”

My amazement must be ridiculous, because he shakes his head and smiles. When he does it—when he smiles—his eyes seem to light up like stars and all of his face, attractive but too pale, shines. “All I know is that you left ninety-four broad cycles ago from Earth. Blasius
—
my predecessor—watched over you for the first seventy-five years. Then I was born.”

“Were you born here? In this… crappy place?”

“Crappy?” He enjoys the word and chuckles, as if he has never heard a word like that. “Yes. I was born in this crappy place.”

“How many clones are there on this ship?”

He touches my hair again. Now that he realizes he hasn’t done anything wrong—and I have ceased to rub on him—he’s stopped shaking. “I am the only one, since Blasius is gone.”

By now I was expecting something like that. “No one else?”

“No, no one else.”

Of course my father has spared no expense for my one-way trip. My cheeks burn in shame and rage. A crappy abandoned spaceship and only a single clone to watch over me. So much trouble to get rid of me, selling my ass to some big shot who has yet to be born in some colony deep in the asshole of the universe.