Chapter One

It was a magnificent day in the Christian colony of New Hope on the small planet of New Earth. No clouds blemished the brilliant blue sky. The purple, snowcapped mountains in the east loomed toward the heavens so crisp and sharp they looked like painted cardboard cutouts in the scenery of a play. But for Arrin it was just another bleak day in an interminable progression of bleak days. Frail from weeks of beatings and torture he fell onto his hands and knees on the tarmac of New Hope’s spaceport, head bowed, one-year’s growth of black hair hanging in tangled and matted curtains on either side of his head, fortuitously hiding his shame over his weakness from the twin albino law officers who’d come to welcome him into exile for the remainder of his estimated two-hundred-year lifespan.

His Nephron guard kicked him in the side of the head, making him sway to the left. “Get up, clone!”

The guard was about to kick Arrin again, but Cody, the slightly shorter of New Hope's twin albino law officers stepped forward. “We’ve got him from here.” He looked to his twin, Logan. “A little help?”

Together they lifted Arrin to his feet, and followed by the scowling Nephron guard who was angry over being deprived of the joy of torturing the clone, they hauled Arrin, his toes dragging on the tarmac, inside the spaceport terminal to where New Hope’s chief physician, Dr. Finch waited beside a gurney.

Logan pointed to the gurney. “Sit, clone.”

Arrin lay on the thin gurney mattress instead even though such blatant defiance of an order had always brought swift and painful retribution from his Nephron jailers, and he expected nothing less from his new jailers. But he was too weak to sit for long, and beyond the point of caring what anyone did to him besides. However, the only thing that happened, to the obvious disdain of the Nephron guard, was Dr. Finch began a cursory examination of Arrin; a requirement for the transfer of the clone exile to be complete.

Arrin warily followed the doctor’s movements with his jet black eyes which were the same color as his pupils, giving him a disconcerting, alien appearance. Created to serve as an interloper in the Nephron wars, Arrin was stronger and more agile than the average human. He had an eidetic memory, above average intelligence, and except for a one-inch horizontal scar above his left eyebrow, his features were perfect, a necessity for one with a purpose sometimes requiring manipulating people. Although after the last year of torture and abuse, Arrin couldn’t have used his good looks to manipulate a flea. He was scarecrow thin and covered from head to toe in cuts, gashes, sores, bruises, and abrasions in various stages of healing or infection.

The slightest touch was agonizing, and he tensed and clenched his teeth to keep from crying out as Dr. Finch conducted his examination. He was determined not to grant anyone, and especially not the Nephron guard standing by impatiently tapping his foot, the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain. Problem was, the doctor was examining him with obvious concern, and never in his twenty-two years of life had anyone except his beloved Allegra and Illura shown him anything but contempt. He’d learned early on to counter the contempt with a dark, sullen stare, but lacking any experience with people showing him concern, he had no idea how to counter it. It made him feel impotent, which he hated, but worse, when Dr. Finch brushed a lock of his curly black hair from his eyes to check his vision, Arrin suddenly found his eyes wet with tears! Mortified by his weakness he blinked the tears away.

To his relief, however, no one showed any indication of having witnessed the shameful lapse in his steely facade. Dr. Finch finished his examination and glared at the Nephron guard, who then self-consciously stopped the impatient tapping of his foot.

“This man has three fractured ribs, torn cartilage, fluid in his chest, numerous torn muscles and ligaments in his arms and legs and countless contusions and abrasions. Was it truly necessary to treat him so brutally?”

The guard shrugged, unrepentant. “It’s not even human, but just a soulless clone, expendable and easily replaced. What does it matter if we have a bit of fun with it?”

Anger kindled in Dr. Finch’s heart. “He may be a clone, but he’s flesh and bone, muscle and sinew, brain and heart just as we are, which makes him human, sir.”

The guard snorted. “Animals are composed the same, and it’s what that thing is.” He tried to slap Arrin’s cheek, but Arrin moved his head aside and so he ended up swiping at empty air. He laughed to cover his embarrassment. “As I have just demonstrated it's a very smart, very quick animal, and military-trained besides, which makes it especially dangerous. Daily beatings and PMZ are the only way to keep it in control.”

“I disagree,” Dr. Finch said. “Even military-trained clones respond well to loving kindness.”

"How do you know that? Have you ever talked with a clone before?”

“No, but that doesn’t—,”

“Well I deal with them every day and this one's unnaturally quick, agile, intelligent, and multi-skilled. The beatings keep him vulnerable and negate the fatal threat he poses. If you treat him with loving kindness as you suggest, he’ll see you as weak, and he’s been trained from birth to take advantage of the weak. At the first opportunity he’ll kill you for your kindness. Take my word on it.” The guard put the metal-tipped end of his electric baton underneath Arrin’s chin and pushed his head back, shooting painful arcs of electricity into his jaw.

Arrin’s muscles seized up, but otherwise he displayed no reaction.

“Look into those abnormal jet black eyes,” the guard said. “You can plainly see his hatred for all humans reflected there. You want to kill us all don’t you, clone?”

The guard was partially right. Arrin did want to kill, but only this guard for the countless heinous and sadistic atrocities he’d committed against him during the trip here. To his disgust, however, he was at the moment incapable of doing the guard any harm and had to be satisfied with shooting daggers of hatred at him with his eyes.

the countless heinous and sadistic atrocities he’d committed against him during the trip here. To his disgust, however, he was at the moment incapable of doing the guard any harm and had to be satisfied with shooting daggers of hatred at him with his eyes.

Dr. Finch pushed the guard’s baton away from Arrin’s chin with the palm of his hand, careful not to touch the electrified tip. “I still say love is what reaches people. Even military-trained clones like this one.”

The guard shook his head at Dr. Finch’s naiveté. He wished he could be here to say I told you so when the doctor’s ridiculous theories were all proven wrong and the clone slaughtered half of their population before he escaped. Too bad he'd never be coming by here again. Oh well, such was life.

He pulled his Slimcom from his belt, and handed it to the doctor. “If you’d input your condition received report, I’ll be on my way.”

He waited impatiently as Dr. Finch input the report and returned the Slimcom. “Thank you, sir. You’ll receive an e-mail confirmation. Good luck with the prisoner.”

The guard returned to his ship thinking these idiots had no idea what a dangerous weapon they’d just accepted.