I’ve heard Africa was a wondrous place. Strange that I should live there and not know it. I was born too late to even have the chance to remember and all the pictures have been scattered to the wind. I was born post-holocaust, after the war, and have lived all of my 21 years Earthside. I didn’t know who my birth parents were. Most of us didn’t. It was just easier on them and their conscience for us not to know. Though, many were part of the research team sent to study the atmosphere and soil; their goal being to find a plausible way to reinhabit Earth. As a clone, I exist as part of their experiments . . . likely my god damn parent’s experiments.

We all live deep underground, as it’s the only sane place to be. Ironically, the researchers know nothing of topside. Sure, they’ve studied soil samples and run thousands of tests, but they’ve never actually been there. Someone must risk their necks to retrieve these samples, not to mention the other supplies inbound from Moonbase. These tasks are put to the less important. Namely, me and the rest of the twenty to thirty year old clones. Nearly all those older haven’t made it back yet and aren’t likely to. All those younger wake to a fresh new chance to die with every mission.

We are the sons and daughters of those who send us out to die. Our lives are worthless to them because we are clones; because in their eyes we are freaks. This is true even though we are humanity’s best hope to revive the human race. We are hated too much to let live, yet needed too much to kill outright. You would think otherwise given the phenomenon of birth which has the miraculous power to melt even the hardest of hearts. Yet those who do actually care are soon beaten down by the bias of the masses. Should a mother resist such influence she would be devoured by the wolves her peers had become, or worse, set among her sheep and their downtrodden kin. Even so, not one mother possessed the power to save her child from their lot, which was to breed, work . . . and die.

Unfortunately, this is only part of our curse. We also tend to look exactly like our mothers and fathers, only younger. Life is difficult enough, so we rarely see them. Our only redeeming factor is that among strangers we are human enough to blend in, but that is not our fate and never will be in this godforsaken place.

I’ve been told ever so bluntly, “To risk the scientist’s lives would be to risk the project itself.” Right. Anyone that important is still on Moonbase. The layman translation goes something like this. “We are chickenshit and you are expendable.” Just thinking of going topside makes the scientists wet their beds.

We don’t have the power to fight the decision. All the associations and organizations designed to protect people like us were obliterated along with Old Earth. So we accept our lot in life and give all the higher ups the finger when they turn their backs. Oh, how much we’ve learned from our less than perfect creators.

I look the part, too. Namely, I look like shit. I failed to check my reflection this morning; too afraid of what I’d find. Though the picture at my bedside looked as handsome as I could remember being. I focused on it as it was the only picture around. Most clones don’t have families and most of my memories weren’t worth remembering.

The picture was four years old. It was taken right before I was told what I was and explained my pleasant demeanor. Not that life was all sugar and rainbows without that rather important tidbit of information, but ignorance truly is bliss. I didn’t miss what I didn’t know . . . and I didn’t even know what a rainbow was, so how bliss was I? The picture proved as much.

I was cloned from a Caucasian. My broad shoulders supported a perfectly shaped head and my clean cut shave revealed a complexion that was enviable. My thin lips complimented a narrow nose and a pair of perfectly spaced baby blue eyes. Light brown, wavy hair enveloped my head . . . each strand an exquisite example of modern science. It was combed in a typical style that would make any mother proud; not quite a bowl cut, but still choir boy simplicity. I was a perfect example of what society thought a teen ought to be.

All that was in the past now. The dress code was thrown out the hypothetical window because management was too scared to enforce it on our own turf. Maybe they just didn’t like seeing their own reflection without a mirror. For the most part, they did provide our wardrobe, and therefore retained some degree of control over our outward appearance. Regardless of this fact, management controlled little else in our lives and most of us went out of our way to annoy them. It didn’t take much.

I’d woken to the realization that I’d slept in one of my khaki jumpsuits. It was well worn, but didn’t matter, as this was the typical outfit for us clones. It was all manage­ment provided and was nearly all I owned. This was by design, helping identify us; segregate us from the scientists. Especially since each outfit had 87C printed in large black letters on the right hand shoulder. The outfits had no names which might set us apart as individuals. Management dreadfully wished to avoid such things. How awful to suffer a bruised conscience when a child died. Far from it. I hear rumors that parties are thrown for such occasions. Just another reason for them to get wasted and for us to stay the course for another shitty day.

I did own one other ensemble, but, to date, I’d worn it often enough that grime practically dripped from the tattered threads. It was tacky when clean and the rips had graduated to holes the size of coffee mugs. Laundry was never my strong suit, so I stuck with my plethora of clean monkey suits.

I was aware that facing the mirror was the next step in this cycle, but my courage failed to well up. Fortunately, I got a rain check as my holo-vid blipped to life all warm, fuzzy and blue. Clearly marked as “O-Sys”, or “Omnipotent System”, it really wasn’t. Half-breeds were never afforded such luxuries, so were the low-end, severely outdated versions. At the moment, it served the necessary, but lowly function of a telephone. I could take a guess at who it might be, but this didn’t matter nearly as much as the purpose . . . a wake-up call. Begrudgingly, I answered the call, only to be greeted by a surly, nearly masculine voice, which was about as thrilled to greet the day as I was about life in general.

“Rise and shine, bitch.”

Um, . . . yeah.

“Hey, Tracy. What’s up.”

“Call me Trace. You know this. Do it again and I’ll tear your earrings out.”

“Yeah, . . . whatever. What are you calling for? Spider’s the team leader.”

“It got delegated. Authority’s got its perks.”

“Yeah, but why call? It’s just another mission prep. I know it’s important and all, but what gives.”

“Banquet. Big fucking party. Something’s going down. Something bigger than the fucking party. Can’t say I like it, but the eating’s good. Got us some eggs . . . some real live ones. Not the prefabricated shit. I only had them a couple times. Other stuff’s there too, but we got fucking eggs!”

Eggs. I could hardly believe it. Something big and nasty was in store. I’d like to say I could feel it, but I didn’t need to . . . we had eggs! Real eggs are damn big shit when the high point of your month is an ounce of tofu. Imitation, of course. We don’t get real . . . well, anything. But I guess we are today. Still, I was skeptical.

“You sure?! I thought chickens were a myth!”

“You be fucked, bitch! But I almost agree with you.”

“Why must you call me that?”

“What? Bitch?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re my bitch.” She said matter of factly.

“So, you do like me?” I hinted.

“What’s that got to do with anything? Can’t you be my bitch and still be the ugly cud you are? Your hairs for shit, long as it is. And why the hell did you dye it black? You know your native brown’s showing through? Pathetic! The only valuable thing you got is your blaze. You even know how much that spec of wood is worth? Huh?”

“You didn’t answer me. So, you like me. Huh?”

“I did too answer you, you little fuck!!”

“You didn’t deny it. Come on. Admit it. This call wasn’t delegated. You fucking volunteered!”

Then came a distinct pause. Promptly followed by . . . evasive action!

“You’re floating again! Get the fuck up and get the fuck out! Out!”

Of course, I knew she liked me. Tracy was only half as tough as she sounded, but her dreadlocks were heavy on the attitude. She was nearly one of the boys and would’ve been if she was the only girl in our group. There were two others . . . Sarah and Candice. Sarah seemed more the girlfriend you just couldn’t shake off . . . kind of like the bruise she’d give you if you said this to her face. Candice was the youngest and was more or less the spirit of the group, or perhaps the annoyance. She had a smile you just couldn’t punch off. They did their jobs, though, and met the requirements. Well, almost. Candice was more or less contraband . . . a thirteen year old allowed in on the basis of too many deaths. The age limit is reduced when those older can no longer fill the gap.

Regardless, Tracy did have a point. Being early was important today. Only she couldn’t have guessed why. I had an errand to attend to.

I braved the mirror . . . a shave was in order. My reflection reminded me that I was no longer the “pretty boy” I once was. Thank god. Tracy was dead on about my appearance. I now wear my two earrings on my right ear. One is of normal chromide, a chrome-plastic alloy which has generally replaced plastic and steel as the consistency is far more variable. While the other is of ivory, a fairly rare material.

Although my prize and apparently Tracy’s favorite part of me is a tiny piece of wood encom­passed by chromide. It protruded from the front corner of my right shoulder bone. This rare piece was emblazoned to my skin and could only be removed if a chunk of flesh accompanied it. The chromide melted into something like a star formation and looked awesome, but the fusion stung like hell. It was well worth it. Nearly all wood burned to a cinder during the holocaust and was hence propelled from 170 to 20,000 credits per ounce, and rising. Mine cost me three years savings and it was a bargain. At such a price it was understandable there weren’t many of us who had them. It was equally understandable that I had to fight to keep it and had my scars to prove it. I was no wuss, although the shoulder location was prudent and allowed me to hide it, avoiding scrapes with people who didn’t know any better. Unfortunately, there weren’t many who didn’t. Around here gossip travels faster than the wind.

For reference, the exchange rate was kind of weird. The average value of a credit depreciated to one fifth of a dollar bill. I only made 208 credits a week for the shit I endured. If the dollar still meant anything this would equal to $1,040.00 a week, which sounded a bit more fair to me. Yet, in all honesty, this whole system was fucked. The dollar bill was now permanently out of circulation and never used as actual currency. Why? Because it was made of fucking paper! This came from trees! Do the math! What paper money still existed was now worth 100 times its original value and was a rare collector’s item. So my measly 208 credits a week was worth next to nothing compared to the almighty dollar bill, but at least mine was spendable, which actually made it a whole lot more valuable to me.

The shave was a quick affair and I’d already changed. No time for a shower. Not that it really mattered. The blazingly hot Dead Zone always made short work of whatever good it did. Silently, I jotted down a mental note to take one upon my return. It was the more sensible course of action. So, all that remained were my boots. These were typical army issue, though our boots were “one size fits all”. The micro-computer installed in the back of each ankle adjusts the flexible chromide to snugly fit any foot . . . even to the point of changing a right boot to a lefty.

These boots were much heavier than what pre-holocaust’s wore. This was done to force upon us a constant training exercise, which actually worked. The rigors of the Dead Zone are like none other. Due to this, most of us were in top physical condition.

Space suits were required to survive the toxic air, but for every benefit there’s a drawback. The suits intensify both the heat and the weight. The irradiated African air burns without a suit. Though one can’t normally tell the difference in space, the holocaust failed to obliterate gravity. We fought it every inch of the way . . . two-fold in a bulky suit. Every mission was a complete workout.

We may seem regimented, but I denied management full control over my outfit by slipping on a well-worn black leather jacket. Actually, it was imitation leather. I didn’t know anyone who owned the real thing. Of course, a couple hundred cattle and sheep survived the holocaust, but they were now being bred in earnest on a few protected farms on Moonbase. Apparently, so were the chickens. The steel zipper and buttons had been strip mined from the jacket. The buttons weren’t terribly valuable by themselves, but each one was worth more than the aging jacket. These were now a collector’s item . . . anything steel was.

It took me half an hour, but when I left my quarters I once again resembled a human. My life, such as it could be called, awaited me and I was in a hurry to get the day over with. Something told me it wasn’t going to be enjoyable, even with the eggs and Tracy’s wayward affections.

}||”:::[O]

Spider and company were scheduled to venture out on yet another trip to the Dead Zone at 6:00 A.M. sharp. Nothing is sharp around here. Spider just likes to keep us on our toes, or rather, he likes to try. The last recruit usually straggles in at 6:30, tops.

We respect Spider, but we’ve all grown up together and have learned how one another thinks. Plus, even if we did show up on time, we still wouldn’t leave until 7:00; just our lazy-ass routine. Though we are serious topside and deserve some leeway in the tunnels for doing the shitty jobs.

Spider is just a nickname, but we saw no reason to disagree seeing how most of his body is tattooed with a dozen varieties of them. He once said it was, “In remembrance, because over half the species were now extinct.” Spider even has a pet tarantula named “Bite Me” who’s also a clone. Bite Me’s smarter than we are. He won’t eat the pre-fabricated shit management calls food. He needs something fresh, but this is hard to come by down here. Yet, Wolf, our local black market dealer provides this and a lot more, for a price. Wolf’s a clone too, but so is everyone on Decks 8-10.

5:00 A.M. Is an unusual time for me, but I had business to attend to. I already figured out Tracy called half an hour early just to chat, or hear my voice or whatever. The corridors were nearly empty at this hour and those I passed I generally didn’t know. I nodded in acknowledgment to these few as I headed towards Wolf’s Den, as he called it. Damned architects had no imagination; the identical, dirty worm-hole tunnels spanned the entire complex. That is, all except Decks 1-5, which housed the lab and quarters for the scientists. The tunnels were spacious, faded white and octagon-shaped. This wasn’t exciting, but it was a welcome change from Decks 6-33. Our company lived on Deck 8 and played second fiddle to the lab equipment stored on Decks 6 and 7, which were also quite clean. Deck 8 wasn’t sanitary, but it could’ve been much worse. The filth accumulates steadily as you approach Deck 33. I’d been there once and didn’t relish a return trip.

The extra Decks aren’t really needed. They were built as spares, because there weren’t going to be any add-ons. Decks 9-24 were originally used to house family members, visitors, extra lab equipment and whatever else. Decks 25-33 were left vacant. Now, however, they’re open to house the criminals and other misfits who get kicked off Moonbase.

We didn’t want them, but we didn’t have a choice in the matter. With seven newer Earth facilities built in the past thirty years, we didn’t amount to much. We were kept around for nostalgia, but keeping up an almost useless base costs credits. So our primary reason for existence is that some people pity us and the Moonbase board of directors doesn’t want to be sued for abandonment. Yes, we lead a grand life.

Wolf’s Den was at the far east end of Deck 8. His black market dealership was illegal, of course, but even management occasionally paid him a visit. When they did, some walked through like wary cats, agitated by our every movement. Others parade on through in a pompous, arrogant state as if this were their world and we their humble servants. I, for one, go out of my way to disprove this theory.

Regardless, no one at 87C cares about the questionable nature of Wolf’s Den; if you can’t get it and he’s got it, you can’t complain. I can only guess that Wolf smuggles his supplies in with the monthly shipments. Sure 87C management tries to save some credits by examining the shipment before Wolf can, but somehow they rarely find anything. They always want to confiscate his goods, but they know the rest of 87C would revolt and that Moonbase won’t help because they just don’t give a shit. They can’t go rocking the boat or Moonbase will be given a reason to sink it. Wolf’s worked out all the details and exploits them like the pro he is.

As I approached I noticed Wolf’s pitbull, Crazy, was chasing off some would-be hackers. Perhaps Crazy was a little extreme, but the name fit and security was a must in black market trade. Though, in truth, the dog was only precautionary. With Wolf’s contacts he’d built a top of the line security system. Needless to say, the vandals already tripped it and unlocked Crazy’s doggy door. Crazy was chained, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he wasn’t. Crazy knew me almost as well as Wolf. I casually pushed him over and played with him as if he were a kitten. Crazy loved it.

Wolf likes to sleep in a little later than 6:00 A.M., but Crazy’s barking and the silent alarm that tripped his bed vibration had awoken him. While he was still slamming his snooze alarm, I punched in my security code, hand print, and retina scan. This didn’t open Wolf’s door, only he could do that, but it did access his current list of goods on his holo-terminal. Maybe Wolf’s a little too paranoid.

Apparently, I caught him on a good day. The list was nine pages long. It was amazing how many things Wolf managed to smuggle. He had holo-vids, fresh food, tools, a little ivory, and a few new chromide suits among other things. All I cared about was his plethora of mind wipe programs.

}||”:::[O]

Most personal mind wipes are illegal, but aside from being forced into an early grave, Bunker 87C is pretty lax. Mind wipes are normally temporary . . . providing a short, but pleasant, vacation from your troubles. Mars and few other planets and moons have been colonized, but as a whole, the known universe has gone to shit and the ability to forget is truly a luxury.

Mind wipes usually last about a day and are more popular than cocaine ever was. Used with a holo-vid, a mind wipe program reads your cerebral cortex by way of a harmless laser penetrating your retina. It then organizes your memories and lists them. From then on, your options vary depending on what kind of mind wipe program you purchased.

There’s a wide variety of them, too. Only 500 credits for a day . . . 750 for two.

The “selectives” are more costly, though, . . . 3,000 credits to temporarily wipe out any particular memory. For a series of memories, the price goes up accordingly. To compensate for the price, the memory loss lasts anywhere from a week to a month.

Even more expensive are permanents. They cost 20,000 credits and can permanently erase any one memory. For a series of memories, the price goes up. For a complete wipe, though, you need 80,000 credits. It will start your life over from scratch, you know, relearn the alphabet. These are almost never voluntary. They’re used by the government on the hardest of criminals and rejects of society. Capital punishment’s out, the population’s way too low to permit killing anyone.

In theory, you could watch mind wipes over and over again until they broke down, but to keep you coming back for more, the designers installed an advanced smart virus. This virus will eventually turn the program into nothing more than a useless hunk of chromide. The smart virus initiates thirty seconds after the third viewing and continues to change the code sequence every minute for a year to prevent hackers. Still a few hackers can break the code, but if you fail and try to view a fourth time, the program locks itself into your holo-vid and self-destructs. Although the electrical shock won’t harm you, it wastes your holo-vid and they cost about 2,000 to 5,000 credits to replace. A hacker smart enough to break the code could accidentally erase this knowledge.

Wipes are illegal because erasing the wrong memories can inhibit your work, endanger your life or the lives of others. Apparently the current government, the Coalition of Planets, doesn’t trust people’s judgment. If you’re caught with a wipe program or a fused vid on earth bunkers 133D, 252E, 311F, 401G Moonbase or beyond, you’ll be penalized. The punishments vary depending on where you are, because in addition to the Coalition, each outpost has their own smaller governmental body. Nevertheless, the addiction is so widespread that many of the officials who enforce the punishments use wipes.

The only serious drawback of using a mind wipe, aside from the obvious, is overuse. In most cases the long term result is blindness or a delirium which leads to chronic hallucinations. I’m young enough to avoid undue side effects and I’ve got a hell of a lot of things I’d like to forget. The only halfway exciting thing I’ve done in the past ten years was spike my coffee . . . still tasted like dog shit. No offense meant to Crazy. No, Crazy gets T-bones.

}||”:::[O]

Before I knew it, the door began sliding open; Wolf was finally awake.

The door slid upwards as most tunnel shops do, so the first thing I saw was Wolf’s bare feet. They contrasted greatly from my chromide boots, though Wolf, too, once wore such boots. That was many years ago. Wolf is officially retired . . . and in style. Not many clones retire, unless permanently.

The door continued to slide up revealing Wolf’s bare ankles followed by a pair of flimsy white and gray plaid pants. As for Wolf’s shirt, I saw more of the same. Apparently he read my scan and hadn’t bothered to dress beyond his antique pajamas. They’re a collector’s item, by the way, which few people can afford, and even though he often gives his best customers discounts, his exorbitant profit margin still allows for it. I wouldn’t be wearing them if I were in his situation . . . wears them out too fast.

Wolf had a stocky neck leading up to a broad jaw and a face that he’d forgotten to shave, again. Or maybe it was intentional; Wolf seems to like the stubble look. In fact it was a rare day when you caught him clean shaven. Though today he sported more bristles than usual. It kind of added to his rustic appearance which was how he got his name . . . that and the wide bands of white hair above both his perfectly balanced ears. I don’t know anyone who actually remembers Wolf’s real name.

Wolf’s disgruntled face ran from his chin all the way up to his forehead. Yet his eyes were only half open. This was partly because of sleep deprivation and partly to accommodate for the corridor’s lights, dim as they were. Wolf, at 47, was the oldest living clone at 87C and it showed.

Wolf broke into conversation with a common phrase. “Damn lights.”

Soon his eyes had adjusted and he saw me clearly. “Sel!” Wolf always called me “Sel”. It was short for Selrahc, which is my first name spelled backwards. More than once I’d been tempted to call Wolf “Flow”, but thought better of it. “Sel, you scan too much. Makes it too easy for me. I ought to teach you how to hack into a system without being noticed.”

“Looking forward to it, but right now I just need a mind wipe.”

“Yeah, looks like you could use a total, probably be easier for me to teach you, too.”

“You looked in the mirror lately? At least I’m dressed.”

Wolf called Crazy back in. “Now who’s fault is that, kid?” Wolf also called me “kid” on occasion. We’ve been through a lot, so I didn’t mind.

“Me!? I didn’t wake you. Some damn kids tried to hack in.”

“Ah, but you would have. You didn’t come here for nothing. And you sure as hell weren’t about to wait around. You don’t have the time. Inside word says there’s another mission going up. It’s something special . . . top secret. I couldn’t hack in that far. You tell me . . . what’s it all about?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I usually don’t even pay attention anymore. I just suit up and ship out, but . . . this may sound stupid. Tracy called. She said we had eggs today. Real eggs. That’s got to mean something, but if what you say is true they probably wouldn’t have told me even if I’d asked.”

“Something’s going on, all right, but don’t you go blaming it on my eggs.”

“Your eggs!” I should’ve known. Who else could’ve afforded them.

“Yes, my eggs. They’re not . . . not . . . Shit!” Wolf sputtered.

“I sure hope not!”

“No! No, kid. It was a secret, but what’s the point. They’re not real.”

“What!” The high point of my day just got flushed down the toilet.

“Sorry, but that’s not the point. I provided them for an entirely different reason! I can’t guess anything about this mission except that it holds some abnormal significance. This banquet . . . it was Grant’s idea. It’s got to be connected, but I couldn’t not participate.”

I almost didn’t hear him. I no longer cared. I could swear my luck broke with the eggs. But I knew better. I fucking knew it. No good thing ever came my way without a price. The eggs made me forget that. This shattered hope made life worse. Then there was Tracy. What could I say about her? I didn’t want to pay that price, too.

“It doesn’t matter! I don’t want to know this secret. Just give me a one-day temporary. Hell, I haven’t even started the day yet, but I can’t wait to forget it.”

Wolf’s sympathy welled up as he reached for the mind wipe. “Secret? You’ve got to . . . No! Damn it! Too many secrets. I’m not going to say I know how you feel, but I’ll bet I do! And if it’s the mission I swear I know how you feel. Those fucking, kiss ass missions make me want to puke! But kid, . . . kid,” Wolf paused as he fought the memories and the secret that was burning right through his skull.

“Do me a favor. Fill me in before you use the wipe. I need to know . . . it might have something to do with . . .”

Suddenly, Wolf’s whole attitude changed. I couldn’t understand this. I didn’t want to, but still I was curious . . . wanting to know what I knew I’d regret knowing.

“What!? With what!?” I snapped. My life was for shit, but I’d trade it for his. My whole life ground down to a spoonful of happiness for this man. Was Wolf not my mentor? More my father than my father? What were my petty worries when keeping this secret was devouring him?

Wolf paused. He didn’t want to burden me, but this he had to share. God, I didn’t want to know, but I had to . . . for his sake. Lies! I wanted to know, but the price of it all lingered. Selfish bitch I was!

“Tell me. What can I do?”

“It’s a secret you never should’ve known. Keep it a secret . . . for as long as it’ll hold. You won’t wait long.” Wolf paused and if anything he looked more troubled.

I changed my tone to compensate. “Sure, Wolf. No problem.”

Before Wolf continued he ushered me into his shop and slid the door shut. He hit a few buttons on his holo-terminal and booted up his anti-detection program.

“You’re the lucky one, Sel. Hope you get off this rock . . . and right quick!” Wolf paused, but not long enough for me to cut in.

“Plague’s hit home, kid.” The silence was audible.

}||”:::[O]

The plague . . . The horrible plague. It wiped out the Sierra IV colony on the Saturn moon, Iapetus. Not officially or directly, but everyone knew it.

The rumors named them after the scientist believed to have first identified them. No one’s certain if it was truly Doctor Saurid who discovered them. The Coalition covered it up and destroyed or confiscated most potential clues.

The Saurid . . . the irradiated lice. They’ve mutated to survive, as locusts once adapted to survive pesticides.

There are only a few known facts. Iapetus has two sides: a dark side, heavily covered with dust; and a light side, heavily covered with ice. Sierra I, II and III were all built within three years of each other about 43 years ago, but Sierra I and II were built on the icy hemisphere, while Sierra III was built as a research station to study the darker hemisphere.

Sierra III was abandoned and somewhat destroyed after a nuclear fission accident. Sierra IV was built 29 years later. It was built on the ashes of Sierra III in hopes of salvaging at least some of the expensive hardware left behind so long ago.

It was only a year into the project when the lice infestation began. It was a setback and most of the 437 inhabitants were forced to go bald, but the research and construction went forward. A large decontamination chamber was built, and upon completion all employees were required to check in before duty every morning.

The chamber effectively rid the workers of lice every morning for two and a half years, but the infestation was so widespread that everyone became infected once again at night. Many people asked for reassignment and many of those denied resigned their commission. At the end of the two and a half years the work force had been cut to 35 inhabitants.

Surprisingly, 35 people were enough. When Sierra IV began much of the work force was made up of construction workers, electrical engineers and the like. These men and women would’ve been temporary without the lice infestation and thanks to Sierra III half the complex was already built. Sierra IV was completed only eight months behind schedule. However, four months into the station’s hard-core research the lice began to mutate and resist the decontamination process. It was fought, but to no avail. End of story.

Rumor continues. We believe the mutated lice were found to be irradiated from the slight remnants of the Sierra III chemical leak. They seemed to be slightly larger and therefore faster. They also appear to have an incredibly fast reproduction rate. A few scant reports indicate these things and the result of being bitten by a Saurid.

Large discolored warts appeared wherever the bite occurred. These wounds sometimes swelled to the size of a golf ball and sometimes oozed discolored blood . . . sometimes both. Nausea and flu-like symptoms followed. Decontamination helped, but only slightly. Some called it the resurrection of the black plague. If the bites continued, as they inevitably would on Sierra IV, you eventually died a death similar to radiation poisoning.

Those that survived the longest practically lived in the chamber. For them no more bites incurred, but the swelling went down only slightly . . . they were marked for life.

Some went insane and tried to escape in the two available shuttles. Some not-so-crazy tried to the same. However, a few scientists with a broader view detonated the shuttles to keep the entire galaxy from being infected. This led to the untimely obliteration of Sierra IV . . . destroyed from within. A government cover-up soon followed.

The conclusion now . . . someone must’ve gotten out alive.

}||”:::[O]

“Sel, we’re not immune. We die from radiation just as easily as humans do. Hell, we die more. We’re thrown into the shit on a weekly basis.”

Wolf was scared. I’d never seen Wolf scared. I stuttered my response as I regretted knowing what I now knew. “B . . . But Wolf . . . How!? . . . How do you know!?”

“One person, kid, just one . . . Lives on Deck 33. You don’t know him. I don’t either, but my sources tell me the symptoms are all the same. Hell, my sources are scared shitless!”

I spoke up, thought I had a bright idea. “Wolf, if it’s only one person it hasn’t spread yet . . . We can stop it!”

“We can’t do shit! Once it’s in, it’s in. We don’t know where it came from. We don’t know how it got here. It sure as hell isn’t benign. The guy infected is a native . . . been here all his life. Saurid’s came to him. Saurid’s came to us!”

“But we can stop it; maybe . . . kill him.”

“That’s murder, kid, but even so, killing him won’t kill the Saurids. They’ll just move on to a new host. Hell, they’ll move on to a new host anyway . . . probably already have.”

“But if we could get him to decontamination.”

“The bastards would never authorize it. Hell, I don’t think I would either. The chamber’s on the surface. Moving this guy up through every Deck, every level would infest everyone. We’d be helping them . . . speeding up the process.”

“Don’t even start, kid, we can’t kill all the lice. Most places on Deck 33 are darker than the abyss. And even if they weren’t, if Sierra IV couldn’t stop them, what chance do we have? Trust me, kid, I’ve gone through all the options and the only one that works is abandoning 87C. And the kicker is Moonbase will never buy it. Hell, our own management might not even buy it. They’ll think it’s some cruel joke or a devious plan to get off Earth, or at least the base. And even if everyone believes us they won’t let us go. We’re last priority without the Saurids. They’ll just quarantine us and then nuke us. Management won’t even get out. So I hope your fucking top secret mission is pretty damn phenomenal, because if it isn’t no one’s going to get out of here alive.”

I didn’t say anything. What could I have possibly said?

“Remember, kid, keep it a secret. As long as it’s small and only a few know, some of us have a slight chance of escaping.”

Wolf paused for a few seconds. I could almost see the gears turning.

“Tell Spider . . . I trust Spider. You two might be able to come up with some sort of a plan.”

“What about Grant?”

“I don’t know, kid, there’s something strange about him. I just don’t trust him.”

“But he’s second in command!”

“Drop it! I don’t trust him! If Grant knows . . . the entire plan might be compromised.”

“The Saurids don’t favor anybody. They’ll kill everyone . . . no discrimination. Wolf, nobody wants to die, not even Grant!”

“Sel!” He stopped bluntly as if he’d lost his breath.

“Just . . . need to sit down. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

I thought about that. We clones . . . we half-breeds. It’s an ugly word. I couldn’t say it. I’m surprised I could think it. It’s like calling a black person a nigger. So . . . racist. We’re clones, but we’re not true clones. We have faults and advantages that neither humans nor true clones have. Any one of us might be born with strength superior to a human or considerably weaker. We might be smarter than Einstein or a vegetable. And we might live much longer than a human or only half as long.

This last item . . . life span. It’s the only trait that we never know until the end. It appears Wolf has a short one.

“I’ve known for a while, kid. My times near. A couple years or so is all I’ve got left, but the Saurids will never let me get that far. Believe me, I’ve thought about being part of the escape plan, but it’s not worth it for me to go. Hell, . . . I’ll die even sooner if I get all stressed out over details, much less running away from 87C management and the Coalition.”

I helped him to his bed. “Kid, you’ve got to have this. Take it with you. It’s the only chance you’ll have if you ever make it to Moonbase.”

I took it. It was small. A typical holo-vid is about the size of a an antiquated smart phone. The object was only half this size and much flatter. It had no screen or holo-port, though there were two pieces, cut along the flat edge, which were held together by four tiny screws, one for each corner. Though the seam where the two pieces would normally separate matched, they weren’t uniform . . .no straight line. It looked to have been welded open with a high intensity laser and then screwed back together again. Come to think of it the screw holes weren’t uniform either. There was no precision to their locations. They were just near their respective corners.

My face formed the question that my mouth failed to speak.

Wolf seemed much calmer now as he gave me my answer. It was as if he’d come to terms with his fate and accepted it . . . he’d apparently had a few years to think it over.

“It’s a 1217 system regulator. I got it in last month’s shipment. Thing’s designed to fool viruses, but I’ve tweaked mine to emit a false DNA signature . . . a human DNA signature. The device is already set with the DNA of a nobody from off 87C, but a human nobody. Scanning as anyone from 87C is risky, but this is mere protocol. Once they see you’re “human” it should be smooth sailing. It’s already emitting so don’t fuck with it.”

My mouth was still agape.

“Sel, even if it weren’t for the Saurids the only real opportunities are on Moonbase or farther out. At least there we can pretend to be human and make something of ourselves.” He took a deep breath.

“But not with the DNA tests. They scan everyone beyond Earthside. And if you get past the security scans a stealth scanner will catch you. If they scan you they’ll know you’re a clone and they’ll also know you’re from 87C. If they find you they can’t send you back, not with the infestation, and trust me, by that time they’ll know. So they’ll probably say you’re infected as an excuse to kill you and cremate you.”

All I could do was nod in thanks and sorrow for my friend’s imminent death. Out of his death he was giving me life.

“Sel!” With a contemplative gaze. “I’ll throw in the wipe, but be careful what you forget.”

I took it and bid Wolf what I sincerely hoped wouldn’t be my final farewell and wondered if I’d make it. The device was probably worthless. It’s not that I don’t trust Wolf. I’m sure the thing works. I just don’t think I’ll ever get a chance to use it. Getting off Earth was next to impossible if you lived in a shithole like 87C. That’s without the Saurids. I figure if I ever do, I’ll need the thing. With it I’ve got a slight chance to make something of myself, to achieve my ambitions. Maybe we all will.

As I hurried to the pre-mission meeting, I thought of 87C management and their likely reaction to the Saurid threat, denial. My hatred welled up and I remembered things I thought I’d buried long ago. Ambitions aren’t allowed on 87C, not for us anyway. We underlings have our place in life and that’s how management wants to keep it.

Once, I tried to advance in the ranks. I got a permanent mind wipe for my trouble and now I can’t even remember what it was I was striving to become. Luckily, I didn’t lose anything vital, meaning nothing I couldn’t relearn. Though the bastards permanently erased my memory of how to write. I had to relearn it from scratch and they said it was just a warning. I prayed I wouldn’t die with them.

Traffic in the tunnels increased ten-fold. I knew these people. I knew they were going to die and probably die horribly. Imagine knowing something like that. I passed them all in a daze, ignoring if not avoiding their periodic greetings. What could I have possibly said to them?

87C was all I’d ever known and I was about to lose it. It was difficult to keep my thoughts at bay, but it was necessary as I was headed to Key-Ops, which is best described as the preparation room for surface missions. The room was just ahead on my right. I could see the light streaming out the open door. When I arrived I was greeted by a sea of khaki.

I tried to remember this place, as if it could only flash before my eyes if memorized now. These people, my friends. I had time to memorize them. Soon we would leave this place and my death would be delayed. For now, I was aware with a clarity I’d never known as my mind painted a picture of the scene before me.

It was a spacious room which could’ve held a real banquet, and apparently had in happier times. The walls were off-white in color and as unadorned as the tunnels. The debate of painting Key-Ops had been brought up many times in the past, but paint is a difficult extravagance to obtain, even for Wolf. At times our disgust gets the better of us and we bring up the subject again. Again it’s killed because nothing can really be done. This cycle goes on and on over a multitude of issues. Few things ever actually get done.

Today, though, the built-in tables were withdrawn from the bland walls and filled with various snacks and hors d’oeuvres. Most of these were of our normal, barely edible food, fixed up to look nice, but a few of the dishes were semi-specialty items. These consisted of real ham, beef and, of course, the eggs. Needless to say, the prefabricated shit was wholly ignored. If only they knew about the eggs.

It was no longer a mystery to me where they’d come from and I wondered who else knew, but I wasn’t in a talkative mood. What a time to lose my appetite, even if the eggs aren’t real. I should have tried something, but it was much to the pleasure of everyone else. All this food. This was Grant’s idea. And the eggs. They were Wolf’s farewell.

The general mood of my fellow clones suddenly changed from glee to semi-depression as Spider began his mission briefing. I remembered that this was supposed to be a top secret mission, which I assume was why we were only now hearing about it. Normally I wouldn’t give a shit, but this mission was . . . is important to Wolf . . . He’s not dead yet. I listened, but I could already see Spider’s expression hinting at worry. Not normal healthy worry, but the “we might not make it back” kind of worry.

Suddenly, my blood ran ice cold.

I knew there had to be a reason for our Last Supper type banquet.