I was reincarnated onto the other side of the universe.
My body was shaped like a butternut squash and had the texture of raw meat. Floating in space, I had no sense of scale. Stars flowed around me like so many points of light. I could not move.
Later, they told me I was a gift.
The crew of the Numina search for Floaters. Galaxies tilt around them as the ship rolls through space.
The Captain rotates around the bridge towards Nakota. Between them lies the spectral wash of the detected object: a Floater, shimmering and bright red.
Nakota winces. Reflections of her face wince back from around her console.
Smith groans agreement from the other side of the bridge.
The Captain grits her teeth and fires the thrusters. Galaxies continue to twirl.
The Floater approaches. It is twice as large as the ship. “How many fireflies could you get operational?” she asks Smith.
“We have seventeen. No more until the next supply run.”
“That’s fine. Get ready to send them now. Nakota, do you read anything?”
Upside-down relative to the Captain, consoles glistening, Nakota answers: “Nothing unusual. There’s just a hell of a lot of her.”
The Captain spits. The wad of saliva travels in an orbit before being lost in light.
“Hey,” Smith says, “at least this one will be profitable.”
“Don’t say that,” Nakota says. “She likes keeping this place a dump.”
“Were you sending out those fireflies or not?”
“Yes Captain. Unspooling now. More data in three, two, one…”
The ship blooms in space. Beige, petal-like shapes balloon up. The fireflies unspool, each one flying to an outer point of one of the petals before racing off again with a bead of silk.
Inside the bridge the spectral patterns flash away; in their place a shape is strung together, thread spinning as a cocoon is formed — rendered in miniature.
With the sculpture complete, the bridge lights up in chiaroscuro relief.
“When’s she from?” the Captain asks.
Nakota takes a moment to chew something. “Old Earth, by the looks of it. You might be in luck Cap’, she could be your girl.”
“Over two thousand years. Should have guessed from the size of her.” Smith presses his hand into a gell-like receptacle and feels around. “The fireflies are almost back. None of them have been lost. We’re safe to engage.”
“How long until the boys chase us out of here?”
“A week minimum, Captain.”
“Okay, let’s save her.”
“Yes!” Nakota doubles over her console. “I knew you’d like this one.”
Fireflies all reeled in, the Numina changes its approach vector. The ship splits along its length as it moves towards the cocoon. The petals are now distant haloes, the ship’s core is exposed: grey matter squirms in naked space.
The Numina makes contact. The cocoon remains whole.
“How long for it to digest?”
“We can puncture in five days,” Smith says.
“Boring!” Nakota exclaims. “You’re a boring man.”
“We may get chased out of here yet.”
The Captain raises a hand. “I’m heading back to my quarters, I’ll see you in five days” At the last word her cat lets out a cry as it jumps across zero-g to its scratching post on the other wall.
Have you ever been digested by a machine?
Fangs puncture the cocoon. The Numina curls around the wound like something vampiric, pulling it tight, pressing its mouth against the incision. The Source flows with a chill beneath the bridge and into the ship’s stomach. The cold fluid shows through transparent meat, pulsing, as blue waves tumble.
The stomach expands as mass builds.
“Recalculating,” Smith says. “This shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”
“How’s the neighbourhood?”
“Remarkably quiet. There are a few wobbles lightyears out, but I don’t think they’ve seen us. Nothing serious, Captain. Strange, considering we’re a big target.”
“We’re just lucky.”
The blue of the source reflects in Nakota’s hair as it passes beneath making, for a second, a deeper and far more unique shade. “Cataloging a personality now. Pretty average on most metrics, nothing unique except for the age. Middle class, very boring. Her and Smith should get on well.” She pauses. “We’ll be able to make something out of her.”
Smith grunts.
The Captain shrugs.
“Personality fully online now, Captain,” Smith says. “Their body is starting to grow.”
The Source continues to flow beneath.
“I don’t want to talk to her yet.”
I woke to a room with silver walls that moved in fragile waves. The whole space tilted, like that time we made a raft and sailed it beyond the cove.
Outside the room there was a series of tubular hallways, a vast intestine that rippled around me. My hands had a transparent quality, like worn fabric showing its seams. The illusion quickly faded.
The two of them sit in the ship’s common room, eating apple and cheese sandwiches.
“Your name?” Smith asks.
“Tamsin.”
“And what did you do before all this?”
She looks around her at the dull silver walls, the diffuse reflections. “I taught yoga.”
Smith laughs. “Very vague. I think the Captain does yoga.”
“Is she…?”
“Like you? Yes and no. She’s woman-born, but her ancestor is a Reborn.”
“You’re all Reborn, then.”
“No. About a third of us are Reborn or descendants thereof. I’m not. I don’t know about Nakota. You’re lucky, you know.” Smith plays with his food as he talks. “Some appear in front of a hyperspace lane, or inside a planet or star. Others are bisected by an asteroid.”
“Inside those…? I can remember, you know. Floating in space.”
“Not inside, no. You were the Floater. Think of it as a larva. The Numina here is a catalyst, and we managed to get you into a cocoon. And now, a fresh body, certified human. We’ll be back at Convent soon.”
“Convent?” She can’t tell if the walls are moving or if it’s the inside of her head, slowly churning like a whirlpool of some viscous fluid.
“It’s good that you’re asking questions. This is a standard talk. You’re doing well.” He pauses, as if making an evaluation. “We report to Convent, it’s the closest hub. You’ll need to register there as a citizen. It’s church run. And yes, everyone we save and bring back has been religious. Hence, the church. Picture this: we find people from every society, ethnicity, creed, identity, whatever, except that you’re all religious, one way or another. Even those who professed to be atheists either meditated or practiced some sort of spirituality. You want me to keep going? All the nuns are descendants of Reborn, of course.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Some talk.”
“Sure. Look,” another pause. “You’ll get used to it. You will be treated as an equal. The ship and the colonies will automatically translate for you.” Eyebrows raise. “You have an extra set of chromosomes, but externally present as female.” His tone is that of someone talking about an obscure accounting error, or a blocked plumbing system.
She leans back in her chair, a leg extended against the table, balancing.
“Your reproductive system has changed slightly. That is, point two, you can now clone yourself. The leading theory is that you lot,” indicated by a wave of his hands, “through meditation, prayer, whatever, figured out how to give birth to another self. Parthenogenesis. Out there, floating in space, you were an embryo. Before you died, the old you would have set it in motion its creation. Now, grown again, your body retains that ability. You can have children without fertilisation, and they will be an exact genetic match. Men can’t give birth, which would explain why all the Reborn are women. Make sense?”
“I remember reading a story like this when I was younger. There were three men, and they found themselves in a world of cloned women… Wait, how did you find me, then?”
“We were between destinations. It’s irresponsible to leave you out here, so we’re obliged to scan and search when we have time. Although the Captain’s obsessed.”
The door sealed behind me as I floated into the Captain’s quarters.
She laughed at my unease. “Sorry, it’s an old habit to have my workspace in zero-g.” The walls rippled like water under moonlight. “Don’t listen to what they say on Convent. I’ll help you. Nakota, Smith, they don’t know much. Are you up to speed on everything?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Good. You were born around the same time my ancestor was. I have a feeling you’ve seen your share of atrocities.”
“Do you want me to go into detail?”
“No. But here, things aren’t much better. Just different. We can clone ourselves, so we’re expendable, right?” She closed her eyes in contemplation, opened them. “You know what we are? We’re dependable. Send us to a planet and we’ll colonise it in time for everyone else. They give us everything we need except contraceptives. A generational ship of one. Do you know how fucking lonely that is?”
“Is that what they use us for?”
“Some of us, yes.”
The door squirmed open, and the cat came in to land on a scratching post behind the Captain’s desk.
The Numina pays its tax before entering Convent. The ship rolls, vectors change, and once again it splits along its length. From its perspective Convent is a wall, stretching away above and below in an ever-so-slight curve.
A warden floats towards them, all segments of shell and half-hidden membranes. It unfolds a winglet that dwarfs the Numina. A proboscis extends. The two bodies touch.
The Source flows again, away from the Numina and into the warden. In the distance, another pair of ships do the same.
The warden detaches and floats away to Convent’s central hub.
“We’re good,” Nakota says. “Just waiting on formalities now.” Lights blink across her console. “Okay, we’re clear.”
They follow the warden’s path.
The starward surface of Convent rushes below them. The colony’s edge is covered in a field of grass; shadows shift on each blade as it rotates. The Numina is a grey ball thrown, mid-flight, lost above the countryside’s flat plains.
A tree grows in the middle of the field, vines hanging from its branches. It glows with golden light. As the Numina approaches, vines rise and greet the ship.
An airlock appears in one of the Numina’s vast tubular hallways.
I always hated my face and its many associations. I had the ship change it for me before I departed; nothing major, but enough for it to feel like a fresh start. The chin a little rounder, the nose a little upturned, the hair a shade lighter. Back to an alternate early twenties. I was never ugly, I just never wanted to look like me. I never wanted to look like her.
Scanning into Convent, the nuns said there was an error processing my DNA. That it was a one in a billion chance, that the machine must be wrong. It ultimately didn’t matter, and would be sorted next time. It just made it easier for me to lie on the rest of their tests and questions. They stared at me with blank expressions before letting me go with a smile and few brief words about how Convent was grateful to have me.
I keep seeing myself here. On a street corner or in a shop window, that familiar face. Whenever I stop, it is gone. This place is so much like a normal city, except for all the details.
“Clones change how they look in their teenage years as part of developing an identity. It’s a necessary part of breaking up the monotony of the place,” Nakota explains on the way to the Captain’s estate.
They walk into Anytown, a rural village from England or America picked up and placed, anonymously, down again.
The grass along the roadsides is just the right shade of brown. The houses all have pastel walls. Large plane trees stand by lonely fences. Tamsin blinks, expecting it all to disappear, but the image holds.
“They try to make it easy for recent arrivals,” Nakota continues. “Nobody lives here, it’s just for show. This is supposed to represent a safe environment.”
The effect is unnerving.
“Don’t worry, the Captain’s estate is buried in the colony’s guts. Close to space, there’s no facade.”
They take a ride on a firefly; it carries the two of them out of the illusion and over a city of concrete blocks, damp streets, and rain-washed neon. Above all this, they fly, past the city and into the floral prairies of Convent.
It is incredibly lush.
A tangle of foliage erupts from the landscape with fronds and ferns and flowers and leaves and vines that are all a radiant green. A pathway cuts through a paddock of wildflowers and descends into a valley of willows and brambles and running water.
The firefly stops at a crossroads by a broken white fence and kicks up dust and small stones as it lands. They disembark, and it flies away, a speck amongst the light.
The woods close in on them as they walk; there is an infinite sense of depth. Tamsin can see the seams where two plants join, melding like an unhealed wound. She wonders if they are unique plants, or if they are a million different faces of Convent.
There is no wind. Heat clings to the path. They don’t talk.
The Captain’s estate is tucked into a hillside. The dirt path ends in a circular clearing before a low wire fence. The gate hangs open, with long grass woven through its wires. A stream flows down the side of the property. The cottage has flecked white walls and an uneven tile roof.
Tamsin runs a hand along the wire fence. “This place does feel familiar.”
“Familiarity is the desired effect.” The Captain stands in her doorway, obscured by shadow as she walks out; the shadow lifts, light catches her face.
“I’m not here for familiarity.”
“Come inside, the gardens can wait.”
Nakota waves and smiles goodbye. “We have another run in a few days. I’ll see you soon.”
Tamsin waves in return before walking inside. At the threshold she turns to look behind her, but Nakota has gone. Tamsin closes the door. Her eyes take time to adjust to the dim inside light; there is no single source from outside, instead, it seeps through like slow water.
“They asked the right questions; I had the right answers. You call this an estate?”
“There’s a world beneath this one. We both know that.”
They walk down through the house’s central stairwell, past a series of themed basements like nested shells of the Captain’s life: there is a music room, a workshop, an art studio, several lounges, and a pool. The last is a warehouse, larger than the rest, and filled with various goods in neat white boxes on metal shelves.
It is an archive. The shelves are all labelled.
The Captain opens a door and they walk out onto a pier of scaffolding, floating in Convent’s hollows. Spans of bone like giant ribs arch above and below them, connecting the distant walls of the colony. A planetarium, Convent’s muscles roll like a purple tide. Veiny tributaries carry fluids to the surface and back. Fireflies dart between points like beads of light stringing invisible threads. Burgundy dew and cerise lichen catch in the moving pools of visibility.
“Is this strange enough for you,” the Captain asks.
“It’s reassuring.”
“I felt the same thing when I first saw it. I can stand here for hours.”
“So, I can stay here?”
“For now. We’re heading to Aralia next. I’m meeting some friends there.” She smiles. “You can sit in on our discussion.”
“Are they…”
The Captain raises an extended finger to her lips. She points at her ear, then out into Convent’s organs. “It’s just business.”
Tamsin takes a step back and leans against the pier’s railing. “Sure.”
“Your room’s on the third level down from the cottage, a whole floor to yourself.” She pauses, smiles. “I need to sleep.”
“I’ll see you in the morning then.”
“Goodnight. Don’t feel any pressure, sleep will come in its own time.”
Tamsin remains at the end of the pier for hours after the door closes, watching as the blinking lights synch with the cells of her mind.
The Numina’s skin bubbled like the tension within.
I paced inside my room. It’s all the familiar taunts, all the familiar insecurities. I thought I had escaped that. It’s not just my body: my mind feels young again.
I have the choice to leave; that’s what the Captain told me. But where can I go? I feel like a hostage, stuck in a box, hurtling between destinations.
Am I even allowed to speak?
We weren’t at the estate for long. Nobody visited; we hardly talked. I was in a state of expectation, standing in the garden and plucking the fractal leaves. Or, on the pier watching the bowels of the ship, all the time wondering what this world had to offer.
There were boundaries I would not cross. I never left her property, and I never accessed any of the information on offer to me. There wasn’t any point.
When I walked onboard Nakota and Smith had become all short responses and curt evasions.
I was told Aralia is just a rhizomatic sister to Convent, subordinate only in name. It had its own clone of the church, and a largely identical layout: superficial changes apropos to a different season or distant region of the same sprawling country.
We haul fireflies and Source to exchange nutrients and information. It pays enough, and gives the Captain an excuse to search.
She had looked at me on the bridge. I am only serving in an observational manner for now. So, I looked back at her.
“We’re not going searching this time around, it will be a straight trip. Quotas are full.”
“Everything’s loaded, Captain,” Nakota had said. “Ready.”
“Should be a smooth ride. Okay, leaving now,” Smith had agreed.
Nothing of note happened.
“Systems nominal.”
The bridge faded away, revealing the lush fields of starside Convent. As if I were floating in space again.
The Captain looked at me again. “Here’s your view.”
I returned to my room without so much as a glance outside.
Now, I sit here recalling fractured faces from my memory. It all seems so imprecise, my sister and her always-arguments. My lovers, my friends. My teachings were just coming to a head, I had guided followers, gained worldwide renown. People were starting to believe.
“Come on Tamsin, we’re going sightseeing.”
“Seeing what, exactly?”
“There is a university here, you might be interested in what they have to say.”
“Which is?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
Smith and Nakota dissappeaar into local bar to see their friends. Alone, the Captain takes Tamsin’s hand in an almost parental manner. The nuns scan their DNA, nothing unusual happens.
“They must have sorted that anomaly,” the Captain says.
It is cold and dark in Aralia’s streets. Snow, or something approximating it, drifts between stone buildings. The Captain lets Tamsin’s hand go and stuffs both of hers into deep coat pockets.
They walk through what appears to be the University of Cambridge, as it was when Tamsin had studied there. The courtyards are lined with sickly trees; gothic lampposts illuminate puddles strewn with gravel. It seems too perfect, until the captain takes a corner that Tamsin can’t remember.
“Through here,” the Captain says, pointing to an archway.
Identical robed women patrol the halls.
Further into the campus, the Captain opens a wooden door that leads to a separate wing of a larger building. Its hinges creak as they walk through.
Inside, dust and cheap professor’s cologne hang in the air. A box of books with bleached spines sits on the hallway floor. Several faded academic posters cling to the walls. None of these give any indication as to which department they are in. Many doors line the corridor. Tamsin stops by one and places her hand on the knob, expecting it to open like it must have some time ago.
“Don’t,” the Captain says.
“Sorry, I…”
“There’s nothing in there, it’s locked for you anyway.”
The door unlatches with a click beneath her hand but remains closed. Tamsin steps back into the hall, nods.
“It’s at the end of the hall. They’re waiting.” The Captain turns and walks away from Tamsin, who looks back over her shoulder.
Behind, a robed woman walks towards them. As if, part of an optical illusion, Tamsin and the Captain have swapped perspectives. Neither of them notice.
Tamsin turns again. The door at the end of the hall has opened.
The Captain takes a seat towards the front of a beige classroom. Tamsin sits next to her on a metal chair with a flaking vinyl cushion.
“I told you we could help, Tamsin. These are my friends, all captains, professors, officials.”
Seven women introduce themselves in turn.
“We can talk privately in here, the door’s soundproofed.”
“Tamsin,” one asks, “how have you found things so far? The state of the world? Your memories must be fresh from before, how does it compare?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“We want to change things. There’s too much hidden from us. It’s not just the abuse of power, it’s the secrecy. We think that individuals should remain individuals and be able to cut ties with their sisters. Even identical twins think and feel different things.”
Tamsin nods, as if in understanding. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“You’re young. We want you to change a few childhoods. Do something radical.”
“What if you’re wrong, and you don’t need to do anything? People can change on their own.”
“We’re right.”
“And they can’t.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Tamsin stands. Her chair falls to the linoleum behind her.
One of the other women stands to block the door.
The Captain raises her hand, and the woman sits. “We’ll talk about this. We always do.”
Tamsin leaves. As the door closes behind her, another, further down the hall, rattles. After that, silence. Dust tickles her nose.
Down the hallway, the door that had unlatched earlier was now ajar. She places her hand on it again, gently feeling for something, and nudges it open all the way.
A large window has been smashed, letting in cold air to clatter around the room. Snow rides in to tumble about in soft patterns. Metal racks, full of blue binders with ascending serial numbers, line the walls. Some of them have fallen or lie open and torn with off-white pages impure against the snow. She picks one up at random. It contains lists of personality traits, likes and dislikes, memories, and beliefs. But no photos.
There are variables in the data, but key facts link each entry:
‘Your parents die when you’re young.’
‘At age twelve you have a traumatic event.’
‘Your first kiss at fifteen.’
‘Your virginity at nineteen.’
‘Your heart broken at twenty-one.’
There is a knock on the door behind her.
“How did you get in here?” the Captain asks.
“It was open. Who are all these people?”
“The nuns. They all have matching DNA.”
“So?”
“They’re doing their best to make themselves truly identical.”
“And you want me to stop this.”
Another of the Captain’s friends enters the room. “We understand your point. Two is fine, three, four, whatever. All raised the same way, nobody would mind. But where do you draw the line? What if there are thousands, brought up the same? There won’t be anything new.”
“The whole system is broken, Tamsin,” The Captain continues. “Everything’s set up for control. A nun has a daughter, that daughter has to live their life according to the customs written out for them. Then, it’s the same for their children, all the way down.”
“My twin and I rebelled, but in different directions.”
“That is factored in.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t predict how someone will react in every life circumstance.” The Captain pauses, and gestures to the room around her. “Like some perverse simulation where the same set of DNA is subject to every possible life that could unfold, an experiment ticking over generation after generation. We’re looking for a fork in that path. We want to plant a seed of doubt. Change the environment with something unexpected.”
Others walk into the room. They remain quiet, hanging around the doorway.
“So, you come up with increasingly complicated schemes, to start a revolution?”
“Yes.”
“It clearly hasn’t worked.”
“It has, just not on the nuns or on the line to the throne. We know what will work, now. There are always different stories, fantasies, places to bring someone’s mind. Ways to change a person’s thinking.”
“Who’s the target?”
“Currently? Princess Ayamima XVI of the 1st line. Not much is known about her, but…” the Captain shrugs, indicating the open door, “we just need someone to get close to her.”
“Why me, exactly?”
“You’re new.”
“Is this some sort of initiation ritual for your cult? I need to go for a walk. Goodbye, Josin.”
“We still have time. I’ll wait for you here.”
Tamsin walks to the wide window and steps out into a world of ice.
Wind bit into the streets. I had just had a fight with my sister. Away from the campus, I tried to find a coffee shop. I wandered down alleyways and across parks with my coat tucked against my chest. What were we even fighting about? She always thinks she’s me.
A rustic caravan sat in a gravel lot serving coffee from a hatch in its side. The girl inside looked as miserable as I did. I ordered a flat white and waited for it on a green bench covered in bird excrement. The coffee-girl called and passed me a cup twice the size I was expecting. I drank it all anyway.
I walked back to one of the parks I had passed through and sat down again by a lake. I didn’t want to talk to her, she could wait, I could find a hotel or something.
Fireflies swarmed overhead. What were they doing out that day?
Today? That day? Sitting there, alone, my memories no longer felt coherent. Anger suppressed loneliness. The cold air tore at itself. The evening light took forever to fade and take my frustration with it.
A pair of ducks waddled around the shore of the lake. An old man wandered over to sit on a bench opposite me. The ducks walked to him and ate breadcrumbs out of the palm of his hand.
After some time, he stood, and walked away. He never looked in my direction.
I stood too, and walked back through the campus and its halls of memory, carefully avoiding the building she waits for me in. I ran my hand along the brickwork, letting my fingers touch every crease and valley of stone.
Someone watched me from the far end of a courtyard, dim in the soft glow of a streetlight.
She had the Captain’s eyes, but older and changed. It was a decidedly subtle effect: her eyes slightly hooded, her nose flatter, her mouth narrow.
“You’re her?” I asked.
She smiled. “Her being?”
“The Captain.”
“Josin? Yes. You could say that.” She pulled her hood back. There were beads in her hair, a streak was dyed blond. Scars bloomed under her right ear. “What has she told you so far?”
“Should I trust you?”
“She’s told you enough, then.”
I didn’t reply.
“Shall we go inside? My house isn’t far from here.”
We started walking. The wind blew in uneven currents around the angular courtyard. It was all one gust of wind, splitting up and taking different paths, shaped by the world around it until the breeze that brushed my palm was distinct from that above me moving the trees to and fro.
“Does she work for you?” I asked.
“Not directly. Our lines split off generations ago. Family dramas.”
A firefly careened out of the sky and landed in front of us. We both climbed aboard.
Her house was a dark reflection of the Captain’s estate. It bordered the industrial heart of Aralia. There was no garden to speak of: concrete walls lined a yard shaded by a distant, unknown, object. Beams of light from another part of the colony blinked over the windows, as if cut by the slow turning blades of a windmill.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Roisin.”
“I’m sensing a theme here.”
She shrugged. “It makes things easier. Names are just names.”
The house was full of old trinkets, plants and decor. Ferns lined the windowsills; concrete ammonite reproductions sat atop mantlepieces and cabinets. Scented candles decorated shelves and flowers sat on tables.
“I can’t stand your taste,” I said.
“It changes as you age.”
“Just because it has worked once, doesn’t mean it will work again.” I picked up one of the ammonites to turn its dusty form around in my hands.
“You’re right. We keep trying, anyway.”
“How do I get access to the princess? Won’t that be guarded against this sort of manipulation?”
“Sure, but they have people on the inside.”
We moved from the kitchen to sit at her cluttered table. Roisin cleared away away old coasters and vases.
“People who do what, exactly?”
“Wait, watch, report. They also produce subtly different ways of living. Small moments, childhood memories, the same sort of thing that split up our line. Those are the most formative stages of development.” She pauses. “Me or her, the details are small, as long as something changes. But…”
“What?”
“It hasn’t been enough. Look, when you’re ready, you can come with us. We’re going to seed another colony, away from Convent’s rule. Just clones. Josin and her side of the family oppose. They say it will be lonely, but they won’t try to stop us. They must remain open to change, after all. But each one of us will live a different life. Be different. We can edit our bodies, shape our development. It will be peaceful.”
“It sounds like another cult.”
Roisin spread her palms in a gesture of forgiveness. “I probably would have said the same in your position.”
I stood to leave, knocking some books onto the floor as I did so.
Roisin continued: “We already live in a cult.”
“Goodbye.” I walked back out into the wind, closed the door behind me, and hailed a firefly.
What does it take to change the way someone rules an empire? I have to put myself in their position. Is it a matter of empathy? Of philosophy? Or is it something subtler and altogether more dangerous?
Back on Earth there were stories about how you could get someone to commit murder through circumstance alone. If their night goes terribly wrong, if they aren’t aware of their own impressionistic nature, and if all the cards fall the right way, then they can bring themselves to kill. Imagine, then, the same idea not over an evening or a lifetime, but over generations.
Aboard the Numina, Tamsin idles in the Captain’s quarters like a defiant child in the principle’s office.
“I’m glad you met Roisin, the old dear. She doesn’t understand the layers of our plan.”
“Which is bulletproof, besides you being a hypocrite.”
“So that’s a ‘Yes Captain, I’m happy to help’?”
“And do what, exactly?”
“She’s nineteen, having a ball at a country estate that neighbours my own.” She smiles. “You’re working security. I’ve had some help with arrangements, you two will be alone for a few hours.”
Later, they land back on Convent.
Paddocks of wheat lie beyond the mansion, bordered by wildflowers; honeysuckle, marigolds, lavender, and so many bees all in service of their queen.
Walls of perfect pale brick make up the house proper, like something out of a fairytale.
Tamsin, in a flowing cream dress, walks down the path from the Captain’s estate. Ahead, guests are already wandering into the mansion. About a third are men, all dressed up in suits. Some of them have partners.
“Your code?” Another hostess asks as Tamsin scans in.
“Seven-twelve-hexagon-havoc-havoc,” she repeats.
“DNA is a match. Welcome, you’re all clear. I’m Alisin, I’m in charge of everything tonight. The Princess is waiting in the back room. You’ll be guiding her through the day’s events. We’ve all been briefed, correct?”
“Correct. An hour to prepare, then socialising, the dance, the meal, the performance, and finally quiet formalities before bed.”
“Quite right. Here’s your identification badge. I’ll see you around.”
Past the wide glass entranceway, Tamsin wanders in amongst the crowds. Formal dress anonymises everyone. The cloned wait staff all have straight dark hair, are all the same height, are in same cream dress as Tamsin.
Chandeliers catch light in crystal prisms; garlands and fairy-lights hang on the walls. An assortment of white flowers decorate each room; lilies and daisies, daffodils and tulips.
Up the stairs, Tamsin navigates through a labyrinth of hallways. In sitting rooms guests enjoy small talk and games. In others, people undress, embrace, glance out through open doors and ask her to join in. She walks on.
The air smells like so many floral fragrances, all mixed together until their individual components are one and the same.
Two clones stand guard outside a door at the end of a dim hallway, their faces obscured in shadow.
“She’s inside,” one says.
“Waiting for you,” says the other, who pushes the door open with a click.
Light floods the room in brilliant rose-gold. The door closes behind her. Inside is a chair, a table, a dresser, and an ornate standing mirror. Adjacent: a bed.
Nakota sits on the end.
“You’re…?”
“Not much of a twist, is it? Not my fault, really. They made me take the experience on that fucking ship, the same as everyone else.”
“Did the Captain know?”
“No. I lied about my DNA and changed my appearance.”
“I can see that. You know about her plans?”
“Obviously. Every time we play this through, she never sees it coming.”
“Maybe she did.”
“Maybe whoever you are is worth the risk.”
“I’m valuable because I’m new.”
“Oh, that’s what they tell you. Come, sit, it’s good to talk without pretence.”
“I haven’t picked a side yet.”
“That sounds very passive of you.”
“Fine, then. I’m actively not picking a side.”
“If you put it that way. Let me guess, they want you to convince me to change. To be more lenient with other clones, to live a little.” She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure, I’m not a monster. I was going to do that anyway. Forced births are inhumane.”
“So why haven’t you told them that.”
“You get the credit for changing my mind.” Nakota stands, her dress a deep flowing blue, complementary to the cream around her. “Come on, let’s head out. You’re not the only spy here.”
Tamsin follows. “You’re the centre of attention. Can you change your appearance without leaving the house?”
“Sure,” Nakota smiles. “I have to have a disguise for when I’m in public. How do you know I’m the same girl from the Numina? I might just look like her.”
“With that hair? Nobody else would suffer that.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Out in the hall, Nakota picks up a glass of wine from a passing waitress. She smiles as it spills onto the carpet and stains like blood. “Someone else will clean that up.” She takes Tamsin’s hand and leads her away through the crowds. People move around them, identical faces duplicating in real time.
They sit out on the lawn behind the mansion, among the rolling hills and low brick walls that have half crumbled with age. There is a vegetable patch with butternut squash and beans and tomatoes. Opposite, a flower garden, with beige pansies and bright orange marigolds. People play tennis on a court beyond and fireflies emerge in the evening light above them all.
Tamsin remembers her old life, blinks and sees it all in the details around her. She blinks again, and it has gone.
“Come on, Tamsin, let me tell you a story. Something the Captain and her sisters may have forgotten.” Nakota has found another glass of wine and holds it dangerously above her dress. “A long time ago, there had to be a first Reborn, right? Well, when she was discovered, we worshipped her.” She continues, but something distracts her. She trails off, seems to change her mind: “Looking back, that was a boring story and all the predictable things happened.”
“That’s just a myth, isn’t it?”
“Why question it? We have texts from then, it’s true to us.”
“You don’t remember it, do you? As a society?”
“The core holds true. We can’t remember what sort of world she was born into. Her personality remains a hypothetical extension of our own. She must have felt a great pressure to have children and grow her numbers. She must felt alone, so encouraged her daughters to carry their children to term. By the time the second Reborn appeared, the first had died. Some things aren’t fair, but we were here first, our line.”
“What was her name?”
“Thomasin. Didn’t you know? The same as mine, Thomasin Nakota Ayamima XVI. The Captain and her friends are all seconds, thirds. Not as important as first-borns.”
“And Roisin?”
“Roisin as well. Yes, they’re my sisters. Distant, but all the same. They’re offended I don’t recognise them. Did the Captain call you Tamsin? It can’t be. What’s your real name?”
Tamsin shrugs.
“No, it’s fine. You met an Alisin. There are Fransins and Carsins here, too. Named after each of the first Reborn’s twenty daughters. A name for each branch of our tree. I’m sure you know the rest.”
And so, the guests talk as they progress through the evening. Nothing out of the ordinary happens; people smile and greet each other, greet themselves.
Many mirrors had been brought out for the evening, so that the doubled guests double further, appearing and reappearing at odd angles as they walk around the grounds.
In the end, Tamsin took Nakota aside and slit her throat. It seemed almost natural.
The mansion was quiet, and the staff had gone away for the night. Nobody was left to see the transformation.
Tamsin drained the blood from the bathtub and washed the spray from the walls. The sky darkened as she carried the body downstairs towards the back of the house. Nekota’s blue dress was wrapped in sterile plastic sheets from the kitchen.
Through an ornate wooden door, she found the alteration machine.
The same crystal chandeliers from the rest of the house shone above, only brighter: a sterile sort of light.
The machine was made of a dark, matte, metal that turned in upon itself, reminiscent of the shining halls aboard the Numina. Its bulk was supported by three legs buried deep into the marbled floor. It was reflected ad nauseam in the hexagonal mirrored walls of the room.
Tamsin placed Nakota’s palm on the machine, and it responded, coming alight and opening itself like a flower. She rested the body on the floor. Breathing deep, she loosened her own dress, and stepped, naked, into the machine. It curled around her: cold surfaces numbing, touching, peeling away skin and muscle and replacing them, sealing them up like new.
She stepped out of the machine, her body alight. Her mirrored form looked back at her from every angle, multiplied across space. She raised an arm; a thousand others did the same around her. Her skin now different, tighter; so were her bones, her eyes, her hair. She smiled.
And pulled Nakota’s body into the machine. She waited and watched as the shaded shapes split to reveal a copied Tamsin. It looked alive, healed, and full of blood.
Tamsin disabled the machine and walked back to the ensuite to slit the throat again. Blood pooled to fill the tub. She flicked more blood on the wall, enough to be convincing.
No alarms went off. There were no fireflies out the window. She wondered if they will get the message.
It was as if nothing had changed.
I am the one who walks through lives like others walk through doors. They do not know that I am here. Like a parasite, I have taken her place and live in her skin. I know what to say in the meetings, what to wear, how to act. None of them seem surprised.
Sometimes I ride on the Numina. The Captain no longer searches for anyone, and has given up on supplying Source to the colony. She only hauls fireflies and does routine scouting. She hardly speaks. Her cat will nuzzle her with affection and be brushed in return without the accompanying smile or soft words. Smith remains as laconic as ever.
When I pass, the women on the street step back into the shade below an overhead sign; I step forward in their place.
The Captain and her friends continue to meet in their dusty halls. I listen out of sight. Their movement gains momentum with the public as it spreads by word of mouth. I am that mouth.
There are other meetings, other groups. I walk the lines of my genetic tree like a janitor down the campus hallways. The many branches are, after all, one.
We were back on the Numina, searching for Floaters. I felt like I owed it to the Captain to tell her something. She cried out for it in the moments between movements, whenever a reflection caught her face: not one emotion or another but something in between, as if she were about to look my way and ask, but she never did.
Things were easy with all of us present. The ship mostly took care of itself. I acted my act. The Captain just wanted people to listen to her. At least, that’s what I would do, if I were her. Maybe I’m projecting.
“Nakota, I think we’ll find something big this time,” she said.
“I’m sure we will.”
The Captain adjusted the Numina’s throttle. The ship tumbled through space.
“I see something,” I said. I didn’t. It was almost a lie.
“Where?” she asked. “I can’t see anything.”
“There, 3 AUs starboard.”
The ship followed my direction as I willed the Floater into existence.
“Ahh. How did you manage to spot that?”
“I thought it was obvious.”
“You amaze me sometimes.”
“Did you ever name your cat?” I asked, changing the topic.
“She was Thomasin, originally, after, you know. But that’s a bit close to home. She’s just ‘cat’ now. I think she wants to go back to the estate.”
“I’m sure she will soon.”
The Numina closed in and performed its usual dance. Matter touched space. Petals unfurled. Fireflies danced in the dark as they spun up a cocoon.
“How many fireflies could you get operational?” she asked Smith.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“Lat’s go.”
I submerge my hand into the ship’s flesh.
Her — the ship’s — mouth extends. Two bodies join in space. We puncture the cocoon, and Source flows into the ship.
The Captain continues on as if things were normal.
I am myself reincarnate, born again into the universe. Stars flow around me like so many points of light.
My body arrives in a world of shifting walls and rippling skin.
Not long before, I had murdered myself, but I knew it wouldn’t be the end.
“Hello, Thomasin,” I say.
She is dazed on her bed. She still looks wounded. “No. Are you…?”
“Your twin. Yes.”
This is my world, and I am whole.
2022