I’m desperate for a distraction. I’m desperate for a connection. I’m desperate to know that I’m not alone.
I pull us to the floor, drape a blanket over us. The diffuse light sets Kodiak’s skin glowing. I cup his chin. Within the blanket shading us, the simple gesture feels shockingly intimate. Shockingly intimate is just what I need.
May 1, 18281 Common Era
(2,199 tasks left)
Dear Ambrose,
Happy Annihilation Day! It’s been a year since we destroyed the clone bodies, so we decided it would be a good occasion to update our messages to our future selves.
The ceremony just ended—more on that in a moment—so I’m feeling a little down. Not quite down, actually, more like moved. A whole combo of things. I keep looking out into space, hoping to see my body out there, but once it was away from the lights of the Coordinated Endeavor, it basically vanished.
We rigged the portaprinter to deposit text on the walls of the ship, so you’ll wake up to this writing everywhere. So far Rover has let us—there’s no more need to pull one over on future clones, after all, since there’s only you left. OS will probably wake you up at the last possible minute, to increase the chance of the mission succeeding. If that’s the case, you’ll be human-ing a sinking ship.
I am sorry about that.
Kodiak says hi.
What else? It’s been a quiet year, probably the quietest that any of us clones have ever known. After the“massacre,” OS went docile. We were no longer disposable, and that seems to have changed everything. The screens blinked and then went transparent, displaying the actual stars around us. (“At least we assume they’re the actual stars,” Kodiak is pointing out as I write. He’s not the most optimistic guy, as you’ve probably figured out.) We found out that we have around twelve thousand years of travel to go before we arrive at the exoplanet. We’d better get moisturizing if we want to look good when we arrive. Anyway, nice to have some solid information for a change.
Our life spans won’t bring us near any stars, and definitely no planets. We’re in the equivalent of open ocean, clear medium all around us, no landmarks in sight. Kodiak and I are our own landmarks. He laughed at me when I just read that aloud. Apparently, I’m overdramatic.
We’ve kept the bodies in the cold radiation-shielded center of the engine, and we decided to give them burials in space. That’s the ceremony we just had. Clone corpse vented from airlock while I play the violin. We’ll have one funeral each year, until we run out of clone bodies. We’ll mourn the lives that never were. We’ll toast the future, the chosen clone. You. The glory to come from all of this suffering. (Don’t start with me about the dramatics, Kodiak!)
You were the second Ambrose from the back, but for some reason you’re the one we chose. I liked your frozen stare. There was some far-seeing quality about you. Stupid thought, I know.
I realize that we’re turning into cabin fever weirdos, maybe? Having a funeral for the potential of a thing, mourning the loss of someone who never lived, all weird. Sometimes I watch old reels from Earth, and I can’t imagine any of those ordinary humans doing what we’ve done. But they weren’t cloned and sent up into space on a lie. So who are they to judge?
All the humans that made those reels, all the humans that they produced in later generations, are dead. Their normal didn’t work out for them. We are the new normal, because we are the new human. The only human.
I’ll update this more as we go. Wish me luck with the cabin fever. I love you.
Sincerely,
Ambrose #13
May 1, 18282 Common Era
(1,470 tasks left)
Happy Annihilation Day! Another year in the life over here. We sent out a Kodiak body this time. He disappeared from view a few hours ago. He had an armscar, like all the rest. That wouldn’t emerge in cloning—some lab intern on Earth probably had to carve those in, then stimulate the growth of scar tissue. This one was a little messier than the others, looks almost like a cross. That intern must have been having an off day. Or maybe this Kodiak was their first attempt.
Anyway, Kodiak spent the first months of our lifetime emotionally disengaged—I’m sure he’ll do the same in yours, too. Then, surprise surprise, it became my turn to withdraw. I just got so irritated by every little thing he did. Cracking his knuckles, biting his cuticles (sometimes at the very same time! How does he pull that off?!), eating with his mouth open, saying “erm” whenever he wasn’t sure what to say next, snapping at me if I even remotely interrupted him. Anyway, one night out of nowhere I dragged him out of his bunk and tackled him, sobbing and raging. We decided I should go on a retreat. While Kodiak took care of the ship, I moved into the Minerva beach reel, hiking a digitized beach. The reel was large, so I was able to walk all the way from Mari to the Indian Ocean. I didn’t see Kodiak for six weeks.
I really hated him when I left. Full-on hate. I wanted to bite him, hurt him, break him. There were flashes when I wanted to kill him, and I couldn’t have told you why. My rage was terrifying. But at the end of thatvacation, Ambrose? I tackled him again. Only this time it was my arms holding him as tight as I could, my lips kissing every stretch of skin I could reach, crying at the relief of his company, at the relief of him.
You love Kodiak. This is the hidden miracle of all this: you might be loving each other deeper than any humans have ever loved, have ever needed to love, have ever had the occasion to love. Well, maybe Adam and Eve did, but you and I both know we don’t think they ever existed.
Surprise Kodiak by sucking on one of his fingers, from out of nowhere. He’ll like it.
Yours sincerely,
Ambrose #13
May 1, 18290 Common Era
(399 tasks left)
