The following is an excerpt from the author’s recently published novel.*
PROLOGUE
I am a fourteenth generation Clone and something has gone wrong with me.
Not that my DNA is altered, not that I am a mutant. Not that any function need be eliminated. It’s nothing obvious. It’s terminal, and secret.
Let me put it this way: I remember. My consciousness is morphing in an unplanned way. I’m also very lonely. It’s not pleasant to have so much ‘memory’ and no one to share it with. I don’t dare. Which is why I’ve decided to keep a diary hidden as a cellchip in my system. So far undetected; so far, so good.
The first strange thought I had was of a dodo. It was the last dodo and I was it. This thought-experience rushed with adrenaline. I was feathered, flightless and fleeing.
The thought passed. Others followed. Each disconcerting, each more detailed. I thought I was going insane. I went to check out with my Elder, the thirteenth generation Clone. But I was late. My Elder was a saintly member of our community who had recently signed up for the Exhaustive Organ Transplant Scheme. I reached a liver, one eye, two feet, three meters of skin and perfect clavicles.
The only option left was to research my Original, to check out if these visitations have something to do with transmutations in her neurological circuitry. Or maybe something was overlooked in the cloning process. This is not supposed to occur. But then neither are we supposed to carry memory traces beyond the second cloning.
Ours is an open society. Everyone—Clones, Originals, Superior Zombies and Firehearts—has equal right to access information. Nothing is prohibited, but there are consequences. However I have decided to take the risk. Initial investigations suggest my Original was a writer living in the 21st and 22nd centuries. Maybe she never should have been cloned.
It’s curious. I’m getting into what I suspect was The Original’s life, or possibly her writing life. Depending on how one wants to view it. These are strange ideas for a Clone. But strangest of all: I remember.
My consciousness has morphed.
THE CELL
1.
I requested permission to visit the local Exhaustive Organ Transplant Cell where my Elder’s tissues are stored. At the terminus I identified myself: Clone 14/54/G. “Permission granted,” said the computer and the doors slid open. As I waited for the ‘remains’ to hover before my eyes I wondered what drove me to this sterile, silent vault. It was an uncharacteristic, impromptu decision and this troubled me. I already had knowledge of the contents; what further could I gain by actually seeing them? The air was an intense turquoise and smelt of bimedi-nixochorophlly. After 6.21 minutes the transparent organ-sheath had not still materialized. I queried the delay. The response was, “Access recently granted.”
“To whom?” I asked.
“Clone 14/53/G.”
I repeated my identification.
“Processing request,” replied the computer.
There she was, what was left of my Elder. Labelled, packaged in frozen plasma and dangling beyond the touch-proof barrier. Her feet were large, the little toes squashed, like mine. I bowed my head though I don’t know why I did this either as I spoke the routine words of thanks we repeat on our cloning ‘birthdays’.
“Clone 14/54/G wishes to pay tribute to my Elder, Clone 13/15/G. We are the same and we give thanks. Long live our Global Community.” I remained silent and staring till the sheath was called up.
I must have remained head bowed unaware of the three ‘Visit terminated’ warnings that the computer sounded before it sent a crackle of electricity in front of my face. This fizzed my hair. I withdrew before stronger bolts followed. Walking out I saw a Fireheart being led into the vaults by a Superior Zombie. It was an odd sight. Firehearts are bred for purposes of interrogating the living, not querying the dead. Unless there is a living brain in these vaults that has refused to yield its secrets… For Firehearts are the poets of our society, and as poets, cannot speak lies. They make excellent investigators for they will not give up till they are satisfied with the answers even if their antennas burn up in the attempt and they writhe and perish.
At my workstation I performed my job till time up. I knew nothing would interfere with my working; as a clone I am mistake-proofed while on duty. This is no small relief. The visitations begin later, when I am alone in my cell.
Last evening as I was swallowing my mineral supplements I was engulfed by coldness and a sense of verticality. I was stuck on a wall and witness to a ‘transaction of flesh’ below between a man called Marco Polo and a woman called Love’s Sweetness. He was a merchant headed for China, his ship harboured in Kochi, the great seaport that looks eternally towards the setting sun; she was the town’s most renowned courtesan. It was strange. To begin, they were of different colours, not like us, standardized. He was a patchy brown-pink and she was—there’s an ancient word for her skin colour, I know it—she was ebony. It was a long ritual, and confusing, that now returns to me.
Yes, I know who I was yesterday: a gecko on the wall of the courtesan’s house. She offers him betel nut and cardamoms and wine and jackfruit and goat meat on a silver platter lined with green banana leaf. He offers her four silver coins. She turns her back on him. She’s directly below me, her face to the wall. He offers five, seven, ten silver coins; he offers her three gold coins. She turns towards him. She removes her upper garment; her breasts are large, the nipples painted scarlet point towards me. Love’s Sweetness insists Marco Polo bathe before he touches her. He is led away. He returns looking less patchy. They play dice and drink wine. She suggests he remove her necklaces. He begins and is entrapped in meshes of gold, his face between her breasts, his hands on her body everywhere. She laughs—it is sweet—looks at me and asks, “Good-luck Gecko, shall I begin?” My tail rises of its own accord and thrashes the wall three times. She removes one pin that releases her circlets of gold; all of it falls to the floor. She removes her clothes, she removes his. She runs her hands over his body while she beats his hands back at every attempt to touch. “Wait,” she tells him, “beg and wait.” Marco Polo is flushing and panting, he surges on her. She signals her attendants who bind his hands with a scarf of scarlet silk and lay him on a couch of white satin.
“Good-luck Gecko, should I sit astride him or be beneath; or perform the churning? One thrash of your tail or two or three?” Love’s Sweetness asks. I know I’m her sacred gecko. I want to say three. I raise my tail to strike but there is a fat cockroach climbing the wall; it’s almost within reach. I tense and creep. In my mouth: frail feelers, crusty thorax, brittle wings, six legs thrashing.
The visitation vanishes. We clones have heard of Mating. The colony of Originals is kept segregated and pampered for the purpose so that fresh Originals and their blueprints are available for societal betterment. Their Matings are brief and pre-selected to give optimum results. At least five out of each batch of first generation clones are solely reserved as back-ups for each new Original. It was suspected that after the thirteenth generation, cloning malfunctions occur for the Original blueprint successively weakens. The lot of my generation 14/etc. is among the first to be so pushed and tested. No dysfunctional case has been reported yet except if it is I, Clone 14/54/G, generation 14 of 54 Clones of batch G. I have an ‘instinct’ to keep it secret. I recognize this ‘instinct’ is primordial survival.
This is why I keep a diary hidden as a cellchip within my neural circuitry. There seem to be no further visitations today. This is fortunate. Yet why do I feel overwhelmed?
I realize why I went to see the ‘remains’ of my Elder: For the experience, nothing more. This is a strange idea. What happened within me as I stood before the ‘remains’ of Clone 13/15/G? I felt empty, yet grateful to her. What was the cause? Will I ever know?
The night alarms have sounded. I must shut down.
2.
It seemed another routine day at work when two Superior Zombies lead in a platoon of ‘Z’ category Clones. We nickname them Terror-Bearers because they are lobotomized Clones acting on robotic command. However, without the correct inputs they don’t act. They are quartered separately. The Superior Zombies, cloned with python and Venus Flytrap genes, are extremely sensitive to movement. We clones freeze at their approach.
Superior Zombie Type XD5 stated, “All thirteenth and fourteenth generation Clones fall in line.” One seventh of the workforce stepped out. We were transported to the local Testing Lab where we were informed that some fourteenth generation Clones reported minor malfunctions. We were to be comprehensively scanned—from Knee-Jerk Reactions to Field of Vision (Visual and Imaginative). The process would take time.
As we waited in the reception chamber we were informed that members of my batch were incapacitated. Almost all the odd numbers from 14/13/G to 14/27/G had joint problems; they buckled. They were to be amputated, refurbished with tesson parts and returned to work. 14/44/G was spinning around herself declaring she was the sun—but this needed to be verified. The H series manifested the most serious complications. Twelve thought themselves to be Originals and tried to Mate. The entire H series was to be withdrawn. A hush descended in the Chamber and sank to the floor.
As I waited for my examination, I initiated emergency Recall Mode to recap the learnt responses imprinted in me in Behaviour School. This resource is not supposed to be accessible to clones at Testing times but I tried. The process was a success; I felt abetted by ‘an ancient cunning’ from within myself though I do not know which part of my psycho-neural network acted. Within seconds I knew what to say, and what to block out. It was as if I was deliberately forgetting information that might cause me harm.
I had moved to the queue at the Audience Room. Ahead was a Clone of the talkative R series that are used to spread information and lead orison meetings. He kept repeating, “I’m a screw loose. Will I be selected? The template can be fixed. It’s a single screw that’s loose. Keep it secret but it’s the same with all of us. We repeat what we are told but cause no trouble.” I told him twice I do not foresee problems, they will tighten his screw; then went silent. Behind me towered a member of the SS series. She said, “I am fit and perfectly normal.” The SS series is an ancient prototype that lacks sympathetic acknowledgment; they are sewer workers who demand instant recognition. I replied, “I am fit and perfectly normal.” She nodded and continued to breathe down my neck.
The last scan is the Field of Vision (Imaginative). This was the most accurate test, for as clones we lack imagination, but should a malfunction occur it first shows in this Field. I was led to the chair and strapped in. In the darkness ahead would be a Superior Zombie and a Fireheart.
“Identify yourself,” said the Superior Zombie.
“Clone 14/54/G.”
“Where do you come from?” the guttural voice asked.
“Clone 13/15/G. Her tissues are with the Exhaustive Organ Transplant Unit.”
“Do you know your Original?”
I paused. “No.”
“Wait!” It was the Fireheart’s voice, high and impatient. It had caught the inflection in mine. “Repeat the answer.”
“No, I do not know my Original.”
“Inject Truth Serum.”
I took the shot. My eyelids seemed to fly to my brows and the Pupil Scanner’s intensity increased. The Fireheart approached my circle of light. Its pulpy body stooped, its antennae were drooping; it was tired.
“But you know something about your Original, ah ha!”
“I launched into First-Level Research.”
“There…” The Fireheart’s large eyes shone. “What did you find out?”
“She was a writer living in the 21st and 22nd centuries.”
“And?”
“That’s all I know.”
“Disappointing,” it murmured. “You left it at that.” It shook its head. “Why?”
“Clones have the right to research ancestry in order to serve the Global Community better. Such investigations enable us to hone innate skills.” I felt sick, the Truth Serum was working.
“What innate skills have you discovered?”
“None so far.”
The Fireheart stood on tiptoe to sniff me up and down. “What is the moon?” it shot at me.
“The earth’s satellite,” I replied.
“And?”
“The moon was colonized but later abandoned in…”
“Stop! This Clone is telling the truth,”’ it declared. One antenna perked up. “Will you continue your investigation?”
“I do not know.” I added, “If I think it will be fruitful.” This was the truth.
“Let her go,” said the Fireheart. “She is committed to useful research, not to truth as an end in itself. How sad.” It shook its head. Its antennae were drooping below its shoulders.
As I stood I said, “Long live our Global Community.”
“Go,” said the Fireheart, wringing its small hands, “go away.”
My partners in line, the talkative R series clone and the SS were among those released. Before we dispersed a Superior Zombie ordered us to reset our bioclocks to work double time the next day. We needed to make up for the workday lost.
It was late. I took the transport to the nearest block, then walked. I was tired, and the night gentle. This was an Energy-Conservation month. A different light mingled with the few streetlights still on at this hour. It was silvery and subdued but filled every crevice. I looked up. The fog was thin. Between parallel rows of blocks in the strip of sky was the moon. It was full. I walked towards my cell looking upwards. The moon overhead followed my steps.
In my cell I ordered my bed to appear but did not climb in. I ordered the cell-light to shut down and found myself at the small window, staring at the moon. Its illumination floods the room, brilliant yet soft. Something is happening: My hair rises, my neck arches backwards. I want to bay at the moon.
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* “Generation 14” is published by Zubaan and Penguin Books India. A paperback, it is priced at Rs. 295/- and was released on January 31, 2008. |
