“I don’t remember,” he finally said, his mind a blank how to challenge this kind of interrogation.
“My family has held the pitchfork aloft for clone heads ever since. It’s admirable how they’ve managed to pass the hate down the generations until it got to me. We don’t go to church, but we do visit the Blue Shield Memorial every November.” She paused. “But we don’t go inside.”
After that, she dismissed him. Outside the brick building that was OU Admin, he looked at his tablet, at the last available job opening, the last one on the list because it was absolutely so far-fetched that he could get it, as well as the one he definitely didn’t want.
But he had nowhere else to go. He couldn’t even get a job waiting tables, and the bottom had fallen out of farming for online video game treasure. He’d already sold everything of value except his computer.
God, but this job. Leaving Earth forever. Working closely with clones. Getting cloned himself at the end of his life. Homelessness might be a better option.
He took a deep breath and made the call.
Two nights later he was sitting in his apartment, three days before eviction. He didn’t want to move home to the upper peninsula. Michigan had nothing for him anymore. He no longer had family in France. He stared blankly at his computer, flipping from an article on the local homeless shelter to the latest screed against cloning.
His messenger pinged. He opened the program and saw the head of a large man with dark skin. Okpere Martins, the man who’d interviewed him today. “Mr. Seurat,” he said, “it’s nice to see you again. Have you had a pleasant evening?”
“Sure,” Paul said, thinking bitterly about the terrible printed soup he’d gotten in the lobby of his apartment building.
Okpere looked as if he was waiting for a pleasant small-talk-fulfilling reply, but Paul was too depressed to comply. Finally the man cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you about the job.”
“Not right for the job? Already filled? What is it this time?” He didn’t bother with politeness. He was pretty sure Okpere was a clone, anyway.
“Not at all. You’re nearly perfect for the job. But we worry you won’t feel up to the task once we give you full disclosure about a few things.”
Perfect? He was perfect for the job? How was that possible? He perked up, cautiously hopeful. “What is it?”
“First, the ship is crewed by clones. That is how the generation ship will run with such a small crew. We’re unsure whether it’s wise to clone you for the first time while you’re already in the midst of an interstellar journey.”
“That’s a dealbreaker,” he said, nodding. Cloning would never be an option. He’d die for good first.
“Ah, well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” Okpere said, looking disappointed. “I hope you have a lovely night.”
Paul sighed loudly. Curiosity got the better of him. “Wait, all right, what’s the second thing? I might as well know everything before I decide.”
“This may be a larger issue,” Okpere warned. “The clones running the ship are criminals.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Paul said, the breath leaving his lungs in a slow wheeze.
“Not necessarily,” Okpere said, raising a finger. “It allows us to get cheap labor, and they will be working to clear their records. We anticipate no problems; the crew will have many reasons to keep their noses clean.”
“But who’s policing them?” he asked. “A bunch of criminals in charge of a ship in outer space?”
“An AI will have full control of the ship should something go wrong. That’s where you come in. Where you would come in, that is, if you were to take the job. A backup to the AI.”
Handling the computers of such a ship, with an advanced AI. Paul was momentarily dizzy at the opportunity, even forgetting the downsides.
But that was a lot to work against. “I’m neither a criminal nor a clone. Why would you waste your time calling me?”
“My assistant suggested something to me that we think may be a good workaround.”
“I won’t be killed tomorrow just to be cloned, will I?”
He laughed, a short, sharp “Hah!” that startled Paul. “Not at all. We will falsify a past for you. Past clones, past crimes. No one will be talking about their pasts on the ship anyway, so you don’t have to think up a bunch of lies. You’d be a cloned criminal on paper, that’s all.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it. “I—you mean you really didn’t find a clone, even a shoplifting clone, as good for the job as I am?”
Okpere leaned into the computer as if they were close in person. “There are some people who are working on this ship who do not like the fact that it’s crewed by only clones. They like the idea of one human on the crew. Being older clones, and criminals, the crew is headstrong and stubborn. They want one more stopgap: a human who won’t toe the clone line. If they decide to mutiny, steal the ship, kill the cryo cargo, enslave the humans aboard, you will have to stop it.”
He sat back and raised his voice again, losing the conspiratorial tone. “But as you said, you don’t seem up for it. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Good evening, Mr. Seurat.”
And he hung up.
“No—wait!” Paul cried, watching the window disappear from his computer. He slammed his fists down on the desk.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
He stayed up all night, drinking coffee and pacing. There were so many factors, he had to go over every bit. Okpere had acted like the job was his if he wanted it. But he had shown reluctance.
Idiot. Principles are easy to have when you have a place to live and regular meals.
During the interview, Okpere told him that he would start getting paid immediately for training, even though it was a few decades until launch. He was promised a land grant on the other side of the journey, as well as a free cryo slot for a friend or family member. He didn’t have anyone like that, but he could sell that for a nice price, he figured.
He’d have income. An amazing job working with an AI. An exciting adventure on a new planet. He wouldn’t be evicted.
He finally collapsed onto his bed—which was a mattress on the floor—and slept fitfully, with nightmares of dying in vacuum with a hundred identical men watching him out of the portholes of a spaceship. He woke in a sour mood.
How did he think he could work with clones in close quarters for four hundred years? On a job that wouldn’t even begin for twenty-five years? The idea was madness.
There was nothing left to lose. He launched a call window and prayed Okpere would answer.
Okpere’s face popped up, looking confused but pleased. “Good morning, Mr. Seurat! What can I do for you?”