Three women, each five-foot-eight, one hundred and twenty-one pounds, shoulder length blond hair, high cheek bones, slender build stood in a line. Each was dressed in a light blue jumpsuit that brought out the sea-blue eyes. The women were identical, cloned from the same piece of chromosome tissue.
The first woman left the room when the red light flashed. She walked into the corridor and down the hall to Control Room 2. Stepping inside, she recoiled when the gun went off in her face. The reaction was instantaneous, but her timing was not sufficient to dodge the attack. A technician came in to clean the brains off the wall and door. After the technician, two people entered Control Room 2. One was a man, dressed in the traditional white smock of his profession. The other, no doctor, was sheathed in sultry leather, studded with spikes and gems. She was Targos, Princess of the Camareesh.
"It's odd, watching my sister die like that," Targos stated without obvious emotion.
"Not really your sister, of course," reminded the scientist, the ill-reputed Dr. Haanz Corbecck. "These --" He searched for the right word. "-- bodies are just clones, created from the skin tissue your spy stole."
"Yes, I know that. I'm not an idiot, Corbecck."
The doctor made no reply, but furthered the discussion. "This method of clone testing has been proven effective. Very effective. Any and every possible reaction your sister may make when attacked, every variable can be predicted. In this case we have hypothesized three different variants --"
"Enough -- let's get on with it."
"Yes, your Excellency."
The red light came on again. Another woman left the room, passed a technician in the hall who placed a pistol in her hands. On to the door of Control Room 2, the seemingly mindless thing went. The door opened. A shot. Another. The clone fell like a sack of meat. The armored-plated assistant rose, having been knocked to the floor unharmed.
Again, the two observers.
"The results have proven interesting so far," commented the scientist.
"Hmm --" pondered the princess. "I'm still not sure about a gunman in her chambers. I want her dead, so dead there won't be any question of odds."
"All other possibilities will be eliminated."
"Let's finish and see."
The red light called for death. The last of the three test clones filed out the door. The technician was ready with pistol and body plate. The clone waited patiently, expression as colorless as the laboratory walls, as the plate was fixed to torso and head. A second later, she finished her journey at the door of Control Room 2.
The door opened. Bullets flew to and fro. The clone and similarly attired assistant were both on the floor, neither dead or injured.
The lab door opened as it had twice before. Corbecck and Targos viewed the results without bothering to help the fallen woman. She deserved no more attention than a rat or monkey, an expendable lab animal.
"So, there it is," Targos announced. "If she's armored. G'henna will survive. I think I can arrange for her to be unarmored."
Corbecck made no reply as before, but this it was not out of restraint.
He looked as if he was expecting something. He wasn't disappointed.
The clone was up now, gun poised in a new direction. At Targos' unarmored face. The pistol exploded twice. The slugs rattled inside the impenetrable helmet, tearing apart all that rested inside.
The clone looked at the scientist, then the body of the slain princess. "Well done, Corbecck. It looks like you get your Sanct-Hut on R'vul after all."
"Thank you, Princess. As I said, clone tested. Proven effective, very effective."
G. W. Thomas lives in Central British Columbia. His work has appeared in WRITER'S DIGEST, THE ARMCHAIR DETECTIVE and CONTACT. He makes and sells horror pottery as well as edits the webzine, CHUCK'S BARGAIN BASEMENT.
E-mail:aa296@pgfn.bc.ca
URL: http://www.pgweb.com/chucks
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