The last thing Trace remembered clearly was
standing with the other inmates in line for breakfast. Then the
transport lurched, throwing the men into each other. As they
elbowed and shouldered themselves back into formation, the alarms
went off. Steel bars slid down over portals that showed nothing but
deep space. More bars locked over the doorways. Trace’s heart
pounded in his chest as he watched the exits being sealed off so
effectively. Around him, the other prisoners stared wide-eyed at
the doors and portals, thoughts of escape shining like sweat upon
their faces.
The ship rocked again as the power went out,
and the men tumbled together in the dark. Somewhere close by, a gun
went off, the report deafening in Trace’s ear. He threw himself
down to the cold metal floor, away from the others, and crawled
toward the faint red emergency lights he could see out in the hall.
Guards threatened to trample him—heavy boots crunched broken glass
just inches from his fingers. As he gained the safe darkness under
a nearby table, the transport trembled beneath him. It began as a
faint rumbling and slowly grew into spasms of terror. Steel
squealed and buckled and twisted, drowning out the cries of the
men, prisoner and guard alike. Trace was flung into the chairs
bolted beside the table, his heart in the back of his throat,
himself suffocating with fear.
The next thing he knew, he was running from
the smoldering wreck, legs unsteady as he laughed at the trees
around him. The air was pure and thin—such a welcome change from
the stale stench that had filled the prison transport. Beneath his
bare feet, the grass felt like freedom. He glanced over his
shoulder at the metal husk burning among the trees, the path it had
carved through the forest a dark wound in the lush landscape.
Flames licked along an ugly scar that stretched from the transport
back into the forest for miles.
Free, Trace thought with a laugh that
startled him into tripping over his own feet. He fell in a heap to
the ground, rolled onto his back, and stared at the blue depth
above him. Silver leaves rustled in unfelt breezes. Where am
I?he wondered, and then laughed again. Who cared? It wasn’t
the meadowfoam farm, that was for sure, and he didn’t have to go
back there ever again. He reached for the ID barcode sewn onto the
right sleeve of his prison jumpsuit and ripped until it tore,
rendering him unknown.
The faint smell of oil drifted toward him
from the transport. Trace pushed himself up, hands fisting in the
grass as he stood, and he took one last look around to make sure he
was alone. Others may still be alive inside the ship, digging their
way out of the wreckage, crawling through air ducts as he had to
escape, but Trace wouldn’t be waiting when they emerged. He was
free again, finally, after all this time. Free of the Kressl war
and the work farm, the guards, the other inmates, free. He
took a few staggering steps, then found his footing and raced into
the trees.
* * * *
A few miles away, at the loading dock of the
Delta-23 replicate gestation facility, Davin sat on his idling
speeder and waited for the order to move out. Around him, six other
men sat on speeders like his. Each face was a mirror image of his
own. Subtle physical differences existed between them, despite
shared DNA, but twenty-five years of seeing only Delta-23
replicates bored Davin. The scientists who pioneered replication
technology could speak convincingly of individual personalities
that differentiated one replicate from the next, but there was
still some unfathomable level of sameness, something that couldn’t
be studied or named, that made him long for something…else. Maybe
today he’d finally catch a glimpse of someone who wasn’t a
Delta-23, who didn’t have the same sandy hair or light amber eyes
as did he and everyone else at the facility, who didn’t sound like
him, who didn’t smile in the same generic way or have the same
facial expressions. Someone different.
“I heard it was a prison ship,” the replicate
beside him said. Davin kept his face turned away to avoid
conversation, but the other continued. “Bunch of fellows from the
work farm on Uttar heading for the front lines. About time they
start putting convicts to good use. Keep us out of the war for a
little longer, at least.”
Another replicate spoke up. Davin didn’t know
who it was, and didn’t bother to glance at the name embroidered on
the speaker’s jumpsuit to find out. “Kressl troops bombed the
receiving station at Orion last week. They’ll be here next. The
Consensus said there’s a reward for each guy we bring in today. I
bet it’s at least a thousand quod each.”
Not for the first time, Davin wondered why
none of the others were as excited as he was at the thought of
meeting a natural-born. They weren’t clones, true—each
replicate had his own likes and dislikes, his own thoughts, his own
feelings. They weren’t programmed into identical robots—they were
each living, breathing humans. So why did it seem that Davin was
the only one unhappy with the sameness that surrounded them? How
could they all besatisfiedwith just each other?
On a speeder not far away, their patrol
leader gave the signal to move, quelling further talk. Davin revved
his speeder and took off, tearing away from the others. The last
starship that fell from the sky had broken up on re-entry, killing
everyone inside, but this one only burned on the way down. Crews
already had the blaze under control and had rescued a few survivors
trapped inside, but some may have escaped. Their patrol was
supposed to bring them in. The reward was an added incentive, but
Davin didn’t care about the cash. What would the others say if they
knew he’d give that much and more just to find
someone—anyone—else?
* * * *
Every so often, Trace stopped running and
listened for sounds of pursuit, but he could hear nothing over the
rush of wind through the treetops above. He didn’t think he was
being followed, and soon he slowed his pace through the trees. He
kept the sun at his back, with no real direction in mind except
away. Eventually someone would come looking for the
transport—prison authorities most likely, or whoever monitored
space traffic on this planet—and even now emergency crews were
probably on their way to the crash site. Trace figured he’d stick
to the woods, stay on the move so no one picked him up, and keep an
eye out for any aircraft that might point him toward the nearest
spaceport and some way off this rock.