The Lost Artifact Page 25

  Strand sighed once again.

  The third clone had failed, but the fourth should soon be waking up.

  Strand stopped, looked up at the sunlamps and finally flipped them off with both hands. He hated his confinement. The New Men were trying to drive him slowly mad.

  It would take them a lot longer than they expected. By that time…

  Strand bent his head and continued walking, chuckling softly. The wider world had no idea what was going to hit them.

  If I die, let the universe die, Strand thought to himself.

  He might have laughed harder, but that would make his watchers suspicious. Thus, he controlled himself and continued to walk along the hideous underground garden path.

  -2-

  Somewhere in the Beyond many hundreds of light-years from the Throne World, a neutron star rotated at incredible velocity. It was a tiny object in stellar terms, a bare thirty kilometers in diameter. Once, it had been nearly twice the size of the Earth’s Sun, acting like any normal G-class star. But that had been a long time ago, before it had gone nova and the remains had been crushed down to its present size by the ferocious gravity.

  The inner twenty-four kilometers of the neutron star was composed of neutron gas, but at such a fantastic density that the gas was a fluid. The outer surface of the star was solid iron. The enormous surface gravity meant that the escape velocity—what a rocket needed to lift off the star into space—was 80 percent the speed of light. No one would ever leave the neutron star. Not that anyone could land here and survive to need to worry about how to leave. A marshmallow dropped onto the neutron star from several AUs out would hit the surface with a few megatons of kinetic energy, like an old-style atomic bomb.

  The neutron star spun on its axis, sending out harsh radio waves and electromagnetic radiation, acting like a system-wide jammer. No one could easily send a message to or from this place. In fact, only one known form of communication could penetrate the constant background noises into the star system.

  That was important, one of the reasons this was to become a critical place to the ongoing struggle for human survival.

  Thirty-four AUs out from the neutron star—in the Kuiper Belt region of the system—orbited a cold dwarf planet a little bigger than Pluto. Enormous frozen cracks zigzagged across the dead surface. At the edge of the deepest crack was a highly advanced alien sensor, an operational unit that awaited a customary deep-space signal.

  As previously stated, only one type of signal could penetrate the neutron star’s jamming. The signal had not come for quite some time.

  The alien sensor was attached to a landline that snaked down half a kilometer to an underground structure. The structure was old, of alien design and yet serviceable to human life. Inside were powerful batteries, the monitors indicating they were at full capacity. There were many chambers, many hatches, many storage bins in the structure but only one stasis unit.

  In the stasis unit was a frozen being, a humanoid.

  A highly advanced computer suddenly activated as a timer clicked. The timer always reset once the customary deep-space signal reached the waiting surface sensor. This time, the signal had missed three scheduled pulses in a row, the tripwire, as it were.

  The activating computer automatically switched on heating units, started rebreathing tanks cycling and readied the first food and water dispensaries. Lastly, the computer powered up the stasis unit as it began the delicate process of reviving the humanoid.

  The process took time. At last, something clacked, and the cover slid back to reveal a naked form. This human of Earth normative type appeared youthful but seemingly stunted in size. He had dark hair and a larger than normal head but ordinary male sex organs.

  The human shuddered, sucked down air and opened his eyes, dark eyes that possessed a strange quality and a…haunted sense that something was wrong.

  The human began to moisten his mouth, to stretch and suddenly, to shiver.

  Why was it so cold in here? He scowled, and that created a new set of conditions in his mind. The difference showed in his eyes, producing menace. Someone would pay for his inconvenience.

  A second thought intruded. Maybe he was a captive.

  The young man cocked his head. Who was he? Where was he?

  He frowned. There was a memory in his forebrain…

  He must rise, go to a machine in the other room and…and this should all make sense.

  Before he could rise and proceed on his idea, a seed of doubt sprouted. His memory could be false. Someone could have implanted it in him. It was conceivable that he was a prisoner, and his jailors attempted to trick him in some nefarious fashion.

  His smooth features turned blank. If jailers secretly watched him, he had to lull them and bide his time. They would make a mistake soon enough. Then, he would strike, and he would do it so furiously that it would shatter their control over him.

  As the naked man climbed out of the stasis unit, it occurred to him that he was a great man. He was, in fact, most likely unique in the universe.

  I am one of a kind.

  He believed this emphatically, and for no reason that he could articulate, he knew that he was correct.

  He shuffled across the cold floor toward the hatch. As he reached it, the hatch slid open. Warmth flooded out around him. Maybe it hadn’t been a mistake—the coldness in the stasis chamber. It might have been that way to convince him to move out.

  Despite the certainty that he was great, he hesitantly poked his head through the hatch. To his surprise, a stand with a robe waited before him. Could that be for him?

  He decided yes. Thus, he stepped into the warm chamber, slipped on the robe and tied the cloth belt around his waist.

  The hatch shut behind him.

  That made him start, but he decided it was an innocent surprise. It made sense to keep the cold contained in the other chamber. He shoved his feet into waiting slippers and moved toward a table with a…

  He picked up a glass, peering into it. He sniffed at the clear liquid and finally took a sip. It was water. As the knowledge filled him, an incredible thirst took hold. Before he knew it, he’d tilted his head back and guzzled the water.

  He set the empty glass down with a thud, sat down on the chair and examined a bowl of…

  He leaned toward it, sniffing.

  Porridge, this is porridge.

  He noticed tiny brown spots on the surface of the porridge. In an instant, he realized that was brown sugar. He liked to sprinkle brown sugar on his porridge.

  As he realized the truth of that, he picked up a spoon. He hadn’t noticed the spoon until this moment. His stomach growled. He was ravenous.

  Before he knew it, he set down the spoon, picked up the bowl and licked up every trace of porridge left. He felt better for it—

  Impatience struck with alarming suddenness.

  Setting down the bowl, he looked around the room, spying another chair, this one before a console and a screen.

  He stood, went to the console and studied the controls. He felt as if he knew what to do.

  He sat, pressed a switch and looked up with anticipation as the screen activated. This was exciting. He might find out who he was and why he was here.

  The screen came into focus, and he found himself staring at an old man. There was something hauntingly familiar about the man.

  He noticed a hand mirror beside the controls. He picked up the mirror and examined himself. It took a moment. With a shock, he realized that the man on the screen looked just like him with the single exception that the man was one hundred years older. No. The man on the screen also wore a uniform instead of a terrycloth robe, and he didn’t move. It was a still shot.

  Ah. He touched another switch. That activated something; sound began and the old man moved.

  “So…” said the old man, “it appears that it has finally happened. I am either dead or a prisoner without any means of escape. I can hardly fathom such an event, but that you are listening to me means that I did ind
eed prepare for such a hideous occurrence.”

  That sounded ominous.

  “I urge you to listen well and to think deeply about what I am about to tell you,” the old man said. “This is painful for me. Never doubt it.”

  The old man paused, looked away and shuddered as if overcome by severe emotions. It almost seemed as if he would cry. The old man resolutely shook his head and looked up at him again with burning embers for eyes.

  A grim feeling of trepidation tightened the young man’s chest. What was going on? Why did they look alike given their extreme differences in age? They couldn’t be twins. Was this his father?

  “I am Methuselah Man Strand, and this is a recording I’ve purposefully made for you. I am thousands of years old and am the greatest human to have ever existed. Yet, the possibility is quite real that I am now dead. The idea pains me, as it should pain you. And yet, that I have died now gives you life.

  “Perhaps this is difficult for you as you watch in stunned amazement. Yet, knowing me, I doubt it is too difficult. In fact, you are about to embark on a fantastic journey, as you are my clone.”

  The young man sitting in the chair frowned. What? A clone? He was a clone of that arrogant boaster?

  “But you are not just any clone,” Strand continued. “You are the exact replica of me and will have all my abilities. Even more, you will possess free will. I have made many clones in the past, but none like you. Since I have presumably died, you will now become Strand. In the possibility that I am a prisoner—”

  On the screen, Methuselah Man Strand grew thoughtful. “Either the Emperor of the New Men has captured me or Star Watch has done so. I urge you to free me, but I doubt you will. Being just like me, you will desire to remain Strand and you will wish for my death. I cannot worry about that. I must believe that some combination of bad luck has already seen to my demise.”

  Methuselah Man Strand straightened, and his eyes burned with power.

  “I will not charge you will anything, my son. Instead, I suggest to you that my enemies are your enemies. Once they learn of you—clone or not—they will desire your death, or worse. Know, however, that you are my Samson Option. By this, I mean that you should pull down the universe around my—our—enemies’ ears.”

  The Strand on the screen coughed, and smiled hideously.

  “There is a machine in the next room that will fill you with my memories, transferring my fantastic wisdom to you. You will not have all my Methuselah Man powers, those granted by the Builders, but you may acquire them in time if you are cunning enough. You do have youthful vigor, though, as this time, I have left my clone in a youthful state.

  “That is all I am going to say. If you wish to leave your home—this place—you will have to accept the memories. You are presently alone in a distant star system, but with a spaceship to take you wherever you wish to go—provided you learn about it through my memories.

  “Good-bye, Clone. I wish you success. I have lived a great life. I have done more than any man ever did. Now, you will have to see if you can live up to me.”

  Abruptly, the screen shut down, and the image of old man Strand vanished.

  The clone sat in deep thought. Many conflicting emotions surged through him.

  What was the correct course of action?

  He rose and studied the farther hatch. Finally, he walked through and came to an alien machine of strange design. He saw the place where he should sit, and he wondered about the wisdom of accepting the Methuselah Man’s memories.

  The Methuselah Man sounded like a vengeful person. What was this about a Samson Option? My enemies are your enemies.

  The young clone scratched his right cheek. He didn’t want any enemies if he could help it.

  Maybe he should be his own Strand. Maybe he should call himself something else, and live life on his own terms. Why must he saddle himself with Strand’s many enemies?

  The clone quit scratching his cheek.

  “I can do what I want,” he said, feeling a growing sense of confidence.

  If he was unique, he could surely outsmart the old Methuselah Man. He didn’t need someone else’s memories. He would be his own man, come what may.

  Feeling better about things, the clone looked around, wondering how he could escape from this place.

  -3-

  A hatch opened. The clone staggered through, stumbling as his feet tangled. With a cry, he fell onto the floor, panting as he lay there.

  He had not slept for two days and nights. He was exhausted, his red-rimmed eyes burning with fatigue. He had tried everything. There was no other way to escape the small world that was his prison existence. The Methuselah Man was more cunning than he was. That had to be due to greater experience.

  “No,” the clone whispered. “I dare not accept his memories.”

  The longer he thought about it, the more the clone wanted to be his own person. He did not want to take Methuselah Man Strand’s place. He wanted to live life on his own. Yes, he was grateful for existence. So would any reasonable child feel toward his parents. That he was a clone didn’t mean that he had to accept the original’s personality.

  The clone realized that Strand wanted to live again in him. It was a terrifying thought. Methuselah Man Strand had admitted to making many clones. He was unique, his predecessor had said. He had free will. That implied the other clones had not possessed free will. They had been controlled.

  The clone did not want anyone to control him. He wanted to control his own destiny. Was that such a sin? His predecessor or father seemed cruel, a tormenter of the first order. If the Methuselah Man had wanted him to be an exact replica, why had Strand set everything up like this?

  The Methuselah Man is tormenting me from the grave.

  With a grunt, the clone pushed himself up off the floor. He staggered to a chair and collapsed onto it. He was ravenous, but he was sick of porridge.

  That was another thing. The Methuselah Man had rigged the eatery so it only served water and porridge. The clone wanted to devour some deviled eggs, drink some coffee and savor a steak or three.

  He rested his elbows on the table and put his face against his hands. He wanted to weep, but he refused. He was Strand just as much as the Methuselah Man. The old man had lived his life as he’d wanted to. Why should that be denied him? It was wrong.

  “I’ll die first,” the clone declared.

  The problem was that he wasn’t sure if he believed himself anymore. At first, dying had seemed easy. It was just a matter of stubborn will. The hunger had stolen some of his willpower, however. The idea of living the rest of his existence in this small prison had started to make him go mad with claustrophobia.

  As the clone sat at the table, he bit his lower lip. What should he do? He did not know the Methuselah Man’s secrets. If he went under the alien machine, he could leave this place and live out his life fully.

  The clone stood and whirled around. Maybe he could out-stubborn the alien machine. Maybe he could concentrate on keeping his identity despite a storm of memories flooding into him.

  The clone had a premonition that the storm of memories might overcome any defenses he could mentally construct against them. If he couldn’t even find a way off this prison…

  He began to weep. He had wept before. This was a maddening thing. If he accepted his father’s memories, would he become his father or could he keep his own identity? Why was that so important to him?

  “Because I want to be me!” he shouted. “I want to live. I don’t want to give up my individuality.”

  The clone panted as sweat began to drip from his face. This was such a terrible dilemma. Had the original foreseen his agony of soul?

  The clone had attempted to replay the message, but the screen no longer worked.

  “No,” he said, as he faced the hatch, knowing what he was about to do.

  With leaden feet, he approached the hatch. It opened. He stood there for a time, no longer thinking, simply an animal caught in a trap it couldn’t es
cape.

  He shuffled through until the hatch slid shut behind him. He didn’t jump this time. He was used to the malevolent hatch.

  Through tear-filmed eyes, the clone studied the great alien machine.

  It was constructed of many unhuman curves, loops and twists. The seat in the center seemed wrong, but the clone didn’t know why.

  He had no idea how to turn on the memory machine. The Methuselah Man would have already thought of that.

  “I don’t want to be a cog,” the clone whispered. “I want to…”

  He bowed his head. He knew that in time, he would crawl through the maze of the machine until he sat on the seat. Should he hold out until he was a skeleton? Should he defeat the Methuselah Man by killing himself, or at least by only admitting defeat once he was too weak to do anything about it?

  The clone found himself shaking his head. He wanted to be stubborn. He wanted to defeat the smug old man. But his feet betrayed him. They shuffled his body toward the damned alien machine.

  “Help me,” the clone whispered. “Somebody help me.”

  No one heard his cry. He was alone at the bottom of a giant crevice on an alien dwarf planet. He eased past cold metal. He struggled to stop himself, but now that he’d started, a part of him kept moving. It was the part that wanted to live. It was the part that wondered if he would become powerful once he accepted the old man’s memories. That part argued against the other. He would still be him. He would just have another being’s memories. Given enough time, he would become his own man anyway. This was the better way to go. This way he would live. He would eat all kinds of wonderful food. He would—

  The clone found himself beside the seat at the center of the alien machine. With great trepidation, he lowered himself onto the stool. It was a contorted fit. He felt trapped and almost howled at the sudden dread that welled up within him.