Are You for Real ?

Cappy Jack ©2002

Like a wave clones washed over the earth with steady speed. Accepted by every Real person as necessary and desirable they served a purpose. First of all they were cheap to build and good for eating trash and garbage.  Recycling was in its Zenith. Their inferiors, the clones, consumed the precautions and excesses for Real people. The trash eaters had a sallow appearance. Sort of plastic sheen to their faces, but what could you do? The garbage eaters could get fat and most Real folks kept the sustenance mixed with trash, roughage showed with age. A blemish on a clone was a good reason to change it out for something new.  Most clones didn’t die naturally. Their accelerated aging was a feature of the genetic engineering done to make them more useful; so too all the other features imbued upon them by their creators.  Reasonable Real people decided their life length. A feature of Real wealth was in the clone count and variety in the house.

In a race with silicon, carbonaceous life on earth decided to use or maybe put their form to good use. Clones were built to do everything except be Real. The church even accepted them owing up to the fact that clones had no soul. It was true and no mistakes were made. The system was perfect; or almost, until today. Now this story takes a turn with mayhem visited upon our order.

No attachments could be made with a clone. It didn’t know how. It only knew how to serve. That made it easy to dispose of them when the time came and came only to the Real person who used the clone. It was a responsibility that came easy although proxy carried out most. Two people would come to the clone’s chamber; one looked like its Father and the other would look like its Mother and it would go willingly. Doing anything for its parents, it willingly jumped into the grater that would end its life. Fodder for more clones, that’s what they were made of after all. Fresh flesh ground to fodder made a stink in Philadelphia just where the refineries were left helpless. The razor thin variation in production made a McDonald out of clone production. Current fashion, expensive functionality, gave creatures that satisfied your fantasy. Plain vanilla was still pretty good. Clones did anything but in a specialized way and never very much. No on the job training, they were clipped of learning after their birth. Gene designers gave them everything, they all vied to be the next Leonardo, vats of stinking changes were all over, too. Rejects were claimed as a victory. A sign of being prodigious, they all bragged and all suffered from their inhumanity. “Are you for Real, man?” was the commonest greeting between Reals. Clones didn’t talk, at least not conversationally; they answered and responded to commands.

“Whoa, big fella.” Brad grasped its right wrist with his left hand easily. It stopped moving and waited for his tug or release.

“Howdy, Mrs. Murphy, I believe this uns yours.” He smiled at her flustered look turning into a grateful smile.

“Why, thank you very much, Mr. Smith. I just let go for a moment to open the door and it bolted.” She was relieved she didn’t have to chase it. Not a big deal, they didn’t run just wander, but it was an inconvenience she didn’t need right now. Remembering the start sequence for this particular clone was all she thought about right now.

“I suppose this is a new trash eater?” Brad was being familiar with his next-door neighbor, hardly knew Cynthia or her family after three years in Arkhoma. She looked up and through hooded eyes decided to answer.

“Yes and no. The children are generating more trash, garbage too, but I bought it for my husband. He wants to put a fence in the backyard and I thought a man sized clone could help.”

The clone stood still with no thoughts. It had been bred in China with a western look, still more popular in America than any other type. Although it was big, there was no sex apparent about it; the gene for that drive had been left out. Its maturation level was fixed at twelve; large bodies like this were preferred as docile. There were severely aggressive types bred in small numbers but only for games purposes. They would tear each other apart in the game ring, tightly controlled outside of it. Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus was preserved in the mind of this clone. It could only tell the truth and serve whomever it was imprinted upon. Cynthia wanted to do that now, looked at Brad to excuse himself and go.

“Could I bring it in for you?” He moved towards the door and the clone followed like a toy balloon.

“Oh! OK, please just put it in the chamber.” Cynthia opened the door, swept her hand in and pointed to the left. Once it was in its chamber she would start the imprint, start it’s life. He’d have to leave then. Brad led the clone into a small room off the kitchen. It was painted black, had a small cot, a washing station, toilet and one small bureau. He released its wrist and closed the door leaving the clone in pitch-blackness. The clone sat on the cot, closed its eyes and waited to be called.

“Well, I’d better be going. Say, would you mind if I called you Cynthia? I’m Brad.” He had one hand on her counter top, leaning with his legs crossed. His hips made his pants pouchy around his crotch, maybe hiding a woody. She looked with purpose at it, let him see her looking.

“Do you have time for a cup of coffee? I’m going to have one before I imprint it. You have any clones?” His smile showed his interest as she removed her coat, pulling it over her breasts slowly and tightly.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He sat down as she showed her ass to him, tilted up when she reached for the coffee machine. ‘Nice even after two kids’, he thought warming up to what looked like might happen.

The clones name was Barto. It knew that and almost nothing else. It stood and in the darkness started a series of exercises without moving its feet. Every muscle group was tensed and relaxed in ripples crossing groups, working from the top down and then the bottom up. Even with its eyes closed, the clone’s balance was near perfect; gene tweaking lopped off sex, tuned the body, made its owner ready to serve. Barto was a standard 100 kilo strength model with zero emotion. The imprint would be brief and to the point.

“Nah, I had some as a kid, but I’d rather do my own stuff now. I don’t generate enough trash or garbage to really feed one anyway.”

“Not even a small one?” She imagined that he liked to get his dick sucked. Wanted to feel him in her mouth. She leaned over him with his cup of coffee and smelled him. ‘Clean’, she thought. She decided to brush up against him and signal interest.

“Nope. I just work, work, work. I’m a bio. What is this house interest?” He acknowledged the other occupants, felt a bit hurried by her intensity, wanted to slow down a bit. Besides he had just jerked off before his shower and felt his age in his refractory period.

“We are bios, too. What’s your sign?” This was a clear pass and he decided to accept. The answer was allowed to be passed over if she changed her mind.

“Ram with wood rising”, he pushed back from the table, hooking his thumbs in his jean pockets, kicked his boots on their heels. She reached over and stroked his thigh. Her other hand went to her crotch and pressed down.

“What about the Watcher?” Brad looked at her and then the ceiling.

“Not a problem. Sammy?” She called her virtual attendant.

“Yes, Cynthia.” It acknowledged with recognition.

“Rewind from my entrance.” She did this sometimes to hide her cooking mistakes from her family. She didn’t like to be laughed at and the kids looked at the past from time to time. Her husband almost never did, unless the attendant hinted. Her erasures had been accepted for a long time as normal.

“Let’s go in the clone’s chamber.” She took his hand, raising him out of his seat and leading him.

“Sure you don’t want to imprint it first?” Brad hadn’t kept up with the clone fashion and was wary of trysts in the dark. She had a hunger and only had a few minutes grace to enjoy it. The rewind wasn’t forever.

“Come with me.” She opened the door; the clone responded to the light and looked at them. They went in and she closed the door at once. They stood at the front of the room, close and touching hands together. She moved first, down on her knees, opening his pants, reaching for his penis, smelling his soap. He was wet at the end and she rubbed the sticky fluid on the end of her nose, smelling him, than tasting him. Her other hand was down between her legs splitting her labia, sinking a finger in her own juices. She took it out swimmingly, reached up to his face and offered it to him in the dark. He smelled it first, felt the heat, and opened his mouth to suck in her finger. She pulled his root into her mouth feeling it swell larger, giving her a feeling of fullness. They made small sucking sounds.

The clone didn’t identify the smell of sex, was only drawn to it passively. That stimulus, along with the noise, didn’t pique a curiosity that wasn’t there, didn’t excite it like real people, only held it’s attention. It shouldn’t have moved, the glitch couldn’t transmit to the attendant because it was not registered yet, it could not be stopped because there was no one in charge. The imprint was so necessary to complete control and it was so vulnerable until that act in its life was complete. The echo of instinct came down its spine to genitals still in the wild.