In the German town of Bergen everything looked alike; the houses, the vehicles, and even the people. On the monotonous rail into town, we passed through village after village which were exactly alike, interrupted with orchards and groves which were identical. Even the low lying hills looked cloned.
That was the problem: clones. It seems my old friend Corbin had perfected the vatting technique of creating nearly perfect human clones.
I was greeted at the station by Helga, a woman with remarkable red hair, whose beauty did not match her hair. She was very business-like, and never smiled. She was Corbin’s wife. In silence we rode an old lorry to the Institute.
Corbin would not be there, for he was in the town jail. So out of character for him. He had been witnessed killing a man, and was arrested on the spot. I came for two reasons. First, to find out if I could help my friend, and secondly, to see if he really had succeeded in cloning someone.
At the Institute, I was met by Garret, Corbin’s long time assistant, who fearfully babbled incessantly. ‘They come out of the vats fully formed and functional!’ He said. On and on with scientific drivel, I could neither understand nor appreciate.
‘Show me.’ I finally said.
‘But the vats are empty now. We don’t know why they were emptied, or even when.’ He wailed. ‘Without Corbin being here, we don’t know how to fill them, or with what chemicals.’ He was fearing for his life, as well he should be.
I had to extract some kind of answers from Garret.
Sitting him down, I questioned him. ‘How long had he been doing this?’ I asked, and ‘How long does it take to make a clone?’ Garret was of no help here, as he broke into a continual weeping.
I then visited Corbin In the jail, he didn’t look like himself. He could barely speak. He had such a blank look on his face, I guess the ordeal of prison was telling on him. Helga assisted me with in interview, still quiet, but holding his hand across the table. I could see she deeply cared for him.
With great agitation, the jailer came running in, staring at Corbin. He spoke to us hurriedly, ‘Professor Corbin was just seen at the Institute!’
I looked again at this Corbin, setting here, and backed away from the table. Helga’s eyes had a look of resignation. “Keep a close eye on this one! Don’t let him get away!” I told the jailer.
Back at the Institute, I found my friend Corbin behind his desk. ‘Explain!’ I shouted.
‘I can’t. He said. ‘I do not remember anything before Monday, last.’
‘Are you really Corbin?’
‘Yes. Of course I am. Who else would I be?’
‘You are his clone, because you cannot remember anything before last Monday!’ I said.
‘That is not possible. I would know, wouldn’t I?’
‘Do you remember how to run the vats?’ He was silent. Helga was again, quietly holding the hand of this other Corbin. I reflected on her. I could not comprehend her actions. She loved her husband, but didn’t she know who this was?
‘Helga, where are Corbin’s notes and recordings?’
‘Corbin never allowed any of us to see them. I would not know where to look for them now.’ She said.
Outside Corbin’s office, I called the Jailer. “Come at once! I have another one here for you to arrest!” I said.
Retreating to the hotel, I spent the evening trying to get through on the phone to my Captain. I wanted the authority to finish this. In the morning, I was summoned by the Jailer, who was also the town’s Constable. ‘We cannot find Corbin in either place. Nor is Helga or Garret to be found. In the night they have fled. I believe they drove to the next town, toward the border.’
Riding with the Constable, the road was dirt, and deeply rutted. An over-night rain had made mud of it all. Coming to a sharp curve in the road, I spied an overturned car, down over the edge of a drop off. We ran to the car and found three Corbins, and two Helgas, all dead. Garret was there also, and very dead.
At first I thought they died in the crash, but the car was not that badly damaged. Looking closer, I found a small puncture wound behind each of their left ears. They had been murdered, shot with a small calibre hand gun, and left here intentionally. The murderer would have wanted us to believe that this was the end of the line. They are dead, so the case is closed.
‘Who is the murderer? said the Constable. ‘Is it Corbin, or Helga, or even possibly Garret?
‘I know what I must do.’ I said. ‘Let’s go back to the Hotel. I must make a call at once!’
The troops arrived later that afternoon. In every town within a radius of two hundred miles, they were searching door to door, and killing everyone that had the likeness of either of the three who fled.
The report came in that evening. Four Corbins, one Helga, were found and executed. They found no Garret. Evidently, it really was Garret who was dead in that car.
I then had the troops search the car, all the places where the others were found, and the Institute. I wanted any notes, any papers, and any tapes recovered and brought to me.
The Major brought to me the next morning, all the bodies, and a small box of letters, tapes, and papers. I then had him dismantle the vats and equipment at the Institute. He had the bodies cremated at my command. The box of notes I personally burned.
In my report to my Captain, I stated, ‘Let this be the operative for any further cases. Any clone of an individual is also guilty of whatever crimes his original has committed, and is to be punished in the same fashion as his original. The same is true for the original, whose clone commits a crime. In the case of accomplices and their originals or clones, they shall all have a similar punishment.’
Clones are not individuals, they are appendages of their Originals. Cloning itself is still a Capital Offense to the State. My ruling fell within those dictates, and I was commended.
As I again traveled the rail out of town, I felt sadness for my foolish friend Corbin, and his wife Helga. Our technology is far ahead of our moral sense. Almost anyone can make a clone nowadays. Somehow they must be educated so that they can understand that their copies have no morals, and very little else, except their own primal emotions of love and hate. What these clones lack is the years of punishment, reward and discipline that defines our moral conduct that we Originals have.Without that, they are monsters!
I traveled home again by train. Looking out the window of the coach, I though to myself, ‘God, how the sameness of these places depresses me.’
Roger Born
roger@borngraphics.com
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