A Murder of Clones: A Retrieval Artist Universe Novel (6 page)

“They’re not fast-grow,” Simiaar said, “but their telomeres are pretty short. They were made from an older adult, and it seems to me that they were being groomed for something. Still, they are fully human—or at least, as human as a clone can be.”

“Can you guess at their ages?” Gomez asked.

“If these were girls, it would be easier,” Simiaar said. “With boys, it’s a bit harder to be precise, but I can tell you that they were still growing. They were probably in their mid-teens when they died, just a few years past the onset of puberty.”

“Seventeen? Eighteen?” Gomez asked.

“Sixteen at the oldest,” Simiaar said. “But I’d guess fourteen or fifteen.”

Gomez let out a small breath. “The enclave has been here for sixteen years,” she said.

Simiaar’s eyes met hers. “These clones weren’t made at any of the cloning companies, I can tell you that. Or at least, any of the ones associated with the Earth Alliance. Because if they were, they would have a tag, and if their telomeres had been repaired, those would have a tiny gold marker.”

“The shorter telomeres couldn’t have another cause?” Gomez asked.

Simiaar shook her head. “Not like this. Whoever made these clones was very careless about it. There are things that cloning companies do that ensure longer life and better health for clones. None of that was done here. In fact, some of the things I saw here could be considered serious mistakes.”

“Serious how?” Gomez asked.

“Well,” Simiaar said, “in human cultures outside of the Earth Alliance, clones get sold, but the person or companies selling the clones have to guarantee the clone’s health and the fact that it will have a ‘natural’ lifespan.”

Gomez had heard about clone sales, but she had never encountered one. She was glad she’d been spared that part of the Frontier—at least so far.

“So these clones weren’t made for selling?” Gomez asked.

“I don’t know what they were for,” Simiaar said. “But I can tell you this. Whoever cloned them didn’t really care about them. Or only knew enough science to make a clone. They didn’t know much else.”

“Enough science,” Gomez said. “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s not as hard to clone someone as the companies make it sound,” Simiaar said. “I could do it with the technology in this room. You couldn’t, though. You don’t have the scientific skills.”

“Such a vote of confidence,” Gomez said with a smile.

“Well, you don’t have the training—”

“It’s all right,” Gomez said. “I have to admit, though, that I’m surprised the process isn’t hard. So, could the clones have been made here, on Epriccom?”

Simiaar’s lips pursed. “I don’t know how I could tell you that. There’s nothing in the science or the bodies that would show where the clones were made if they weren’t marked with some kind of company tag. It—”

“That’s not what I’m asking, Lashante,” Gomez said. “I’m asking if the science is easy enough that some half-assed scientist could have run a lab in that enclave and made their own clones.”

Simiaar let out small sigh. “You don’t ask easy questions, do you? You know I don’t like speculating.”

“I’m not asking you if they did it,” Gomez said. “I’m asking you if they could.”

Simiaar looked at the images of the intact bodies floating over the mess that the corpses had become.

She sighed. “These poor boys got created somewhere, under pretty primitive conditions. Or at least, with an inept scientist who only knew how to clone, not how to make a clone anything more than viable.”

“So,” Gomez said again, “the cloning could have happened on Epriccom in that enclave.”

“Or on a ship on the way here or in a city a thousand light years away. I’m telling you, Judita, I don’t know and I have no way of finding out.”

Gomez stared at the bodies just like Simiaar was doing. Gomez had never understood why clones were treated differently under the law. People could argue that everyone got made, just using different methods.

But she knew that the laws she upheld—at least for now—made unlicensed cloning illegal.

“But,” Gomez said, “you can’t rule out the fact that they could have been made here.”

“Good grief, Judita. Are you sure you weren’t trained as a lawyer? Yes. Okay? I can’t rule it out. But this isn’t a damn court of law.” Simiaar ran a hand through her thick, curly hair.

Gomez smiled at the backward compliment. Simiaar hated lawyers.

“I know it’s not a court of law,” Gomez said. “Still, I thank you for your answer.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” Simiaar snapped. “Because if these clones were created here, we stumbled onto something both big and dangerous.”

“I know,” Gomez said.

“An illegal cloning operation could be worth millions,” Simiaar said.

“I’m aware,” Gomez said.

“And they’ll kill to defend it. Human life is cheap to people like that.”

“I know that, too,” Gomez said. Simiaar was about to start a rant, so Gomez had to retake control of the conversation. “So, do you know how they died?”

Simiaar sighed. She ran a hand across her mouth and then studied those intact images. The boys almost looked angelic. The imagery certainly seemed unreal, particularly considering the destroyed bodies below.

“There’s a lot of damage here because of the decomposition,” Simiaar said, “plus I’m not sure how those branches work, exactly, but they had some effect on the bodies.”

“Enough that you can’t say how the boys died?” Gomez asked.

“I’ll have to run tests with some organic specimens that I grow,” Simiaar said. “You wouldn’t, by chance, be able to get some information from the Eaufasse on those plants?”

“I can barely understand the Eaufasse when they’re giving me walking directions, and I’m pretty sure the Eaufasse have a similar problem with me.”

“It didn’t sound that way with the Peyti,” Simiaar said.

“If it’s translating things correcting,” Gomez said.

“You have doubts?” Simiaar asked.

Gomez didn’t answer. She raised her eyebrows, just so that she could claim that she had said nothing bad about the Peyti.

“I know you don’t like to speculate,” Gomez said, fending off that argument again. “But, the plants aside, what can you tell me about the bodies?”

“I can tell you what I don’t like,” Simiaar said. “I don’t like the age of these boys. They’re too young to die of natural causes, even for clones, and they shouldn’t have died in a group.”

Gomez nodded. She agreed with that.

“I don’t like the fact that the shirts I pulled off them had laser burns in the back. I don’t like the fact that the skin on their backs have laser burns as well. A cursory glance of their internal organs, particularly their hearts, show more laser burning.”

“A laser pistol?” Gomez asked.

“A laser rifle, given the power of the shot or shots,” Simiaar said. “But I don’t know. I’m just telling you what I see and what I don’t like.”

“And the laser pattern looks familiar to you?” Gomez asked. “It’s not something that the Eaufasse use?”

“How the hell should I know?” Simiaar said. “This culture is as new to me as it is to you.”

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. And here’s my answer. The laser burns are consistent with human weapons. That doesn’t mean they’re inconsistent with Eaufasse weapons or that they might come from some weird laser source that I don’t know about. I’m just telling you what I don’t like.”

Which was, apparently, different from speculating. Gomez didn’t understand the distinction, but she appreciated the fact that Simiaar made such a distinction.

“What else can you tell me?” Gomez asked.

“Nothing,” Simiaar said. “My likes and dislikes are accounted for. Now I need to get my hands dirty, do some real science, and then go through the DNA database to see if the source of these clones is registered somewhere.”

Gomez had never heard of such a thing. “Why would you do that?”

“Because home-grown clones like these usually come from megalomaniacs who don’t believe one of themselves is enough to satisfy the universe. They need to create more of themselves in their own image to satisfy their God complex.”

For a moment, Gomez thought Simiaar was joking. Then she realized that Simiaar wasn’t joking at all.

“You think that person might be in the enclave?” Gomez asked.

“I think that person might be
identifiable
,” Simiaar said. “That’s all. Now, get out. I have work to do.”

Gomez didn’t need to be told again. She left the forensics lab with more to think about than she had ever expected. Simiaar told her a lot without saying anything. And Simiaar’s opinion coincided with what the Eaufasse said. A group from inside the enclave chased these boys into the clearing and killed them.

So why had one lived? Had he lived as a warning? If so, why was he outside the enclave instead of inside?

That surviving kid would have answers that Simiaar was just guessing at.

Gomez had to figure out the legalities. She had no idea if she could interview someone who requested asylum from humans. She wasn’t even sure if “asylum from humans” was a proper request.

She headed back to her cabin to contact whatever idiot lawyer FSS managed to have on call.

FIVE

THE IDIOT LAWYER hovering on the other side of the table in Gomez’s office was older than she expected, and not as vain as some people his age. His holographic image shimmered, either as a result of the extreme encryption necessary to have this conversation or because of the distance between them. He was chubby, stuffed in a cheap suit, and had no obvious enhancements. His fleshy face showed signs of exhaustion.

She saw none of that as a good sign. If the idiot lawyer wasn’t fresh out of law school and working in the prosecutor’s office as a junior attorney attached to the FSS, then he was most likely a lifer who had given up on any ambitions or creativity long ago. Or he was a supervisor.

She was praying for supervisor.

In fact, she was going to be blunt about a supervisor.

Before she even said hello, she said, “No offense, but I need a ranking prosecutor who has worked on Frontier issues his entire career. Are you that person?”

To her surprise, he smiled slowly and it softened his features. “And if I said I was and I was lying, do you have a way to check?”

She did. She had hundreds of databases at her fingertips in this office attached to her private suite. Some of those databases were what she liked to call extra-legal. Others were sanctioned.

The only problem she had was that the official FSS database she carried was about a year old. She hadn’t updated in a long time, because her secure connections out here on the Frontier were as good as the one she had with him.

Which was to say, unreliable at best.

But she didn’t want to look him up. She’d have to terminate the conversation, investigate, and then request him (or not) when she contacted the judicial branch attached to the FSS a second time.

“So this is the kind of conversation we’re going to have?” she asked him. “Defensive and territorial? Because I’ve got big issues here, and I want someone not just experienced, but experienced with clout.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Name, position, and for God’s sake, tell me if you can help me, because if you can’t, I’m going to find someone who can,” she snapped.

He grinned. “Your reputation precedes you, Marshal. You never call in for legal help. You know more about the Frontier and its legal issues than most lifers here ever will. So when you pinged us, we knew it was important, and you got me.”

She wanted to ask,
So I should be impressed?
but she didn’t. Instead, she waited. Waiting had become part of her arsenal over her years as a marshal. Waiting protected her from blurting something stupid to an intelligent species she didn’t understand; waiting helped her discover many crimes because humans generally couldn’t remain silent; waiting made her seem mysterious and strong when, in reality, she was often just plain cautious.

The caution was why she was good at her job.

He tilted his head and gave her a half-smile, as if he were acknowledging that she had just won this part of the conversation.

“I’m Frank Mishra,” he said. “I’m one of the chief litigators for the FSS. I’m also linked at the moment to one of our best legal researchers, just in case you have an issue we haven’t heard of before.”

So they really were worried about the issue she was bringing up. The respect surprised her. She hadn’t experienced it in her early years with FSS, and after those early years, she hadn’t really needed the judicial branch.

She’d made sure of that. She had hated dealing with officious bastards.

“All right,” she said, making sure her tone wasn’t quite as abrupt as it had been. She folded her hands on the tabletop and watched his chubby image flicker. “Let me explain my issue. I have a young man who survived an attack by humans in his own enclave. He has asked the Eaufasse for asylum. But his request was not for asylum from the Earth Alliance, but asylum ‘from humans.’ Realize that I got all of this from the Eaufasse through a Peyti translator, and that the Eaufasse do not know there are humans outside of the Earth Alliance. I’m not even certain that the word ‘asylum’ is the Eaufasse’s or the Peyti’s. But I do know if I do something wrong here, we will have repercussions for years.”