Colonel Gordon Rayburn, astronaut and Ph.D., watched through the Intensive Care window as the new life behind the glass slowly became aware of its existence. As he stood there, all alone, he tried to pin down his thoughts, or at least sort out the jumbled mess in his mind. At the moment, he felt rather numb. In the beginning he had experienced great excitement and anticipation, as anyone in his position would; but now that things had moved from the idea stage into realization... it was just a lot to absorb. Being the source material of a clone was as close as he had ever come to being a first-time father.

It was spooky to look back at an exact replica of one’s own self. Well, not an exact replica, technically speaking. The clone’s face was pristine, while Rayburn’s own was far from it. An amateur boxing career during his Air Force Academy days left him with a beauty of a scar over his left eye, and a slightly crooked but character-building nose. The clone had neither of these; it was a genetic copy, but without the life experience. The clone was physically more perfect than Rayburn himself. 10-year-old "Gordo" had his appendix out; 19-year-old "Burnsy" had some dental implants when he used his jaw to block a great left hook; and 22 year-old Lieutenant Rayburn was the recipient of an artificial left knee-joint, courtesy of a horribly-landed parachute jump.

Gordon rubbed the top of his head and winced. The pain from the final procedure had been much more tolerable than expected; but still, his skull ached from being opened up. At least the clone would share one flaw with its originator; the same scar on top of his currently bald scalp. In time, the thick crew-cut Rayburn normally wore would amply cover any evidence of the surgery.

 The clone was also tattooed, as was required under the 2024 Clone Identification Act. A bar code lay at the base of the neck, a Genentech symbol indelibly stamped on the left wrist (and all the way down to the bone) The Act had received widespread support, even from the clones themselves, who understood their position far better than a skeptical populace had expected.

Originally, cloning of human beings had been allowed only in cases of life-and-death medical emergency, or to replace an infant child who had died. They were never grown to maturity from the start; rather, they came into the world the same as any normal human would. But the explosion in technology in the first decade of the twenty-first century had opened up new avenues, and new reasons to increase the number of clones. Advances in genetic engineering made the process mind-bendingly fast. And regulating new processes and scientific techniques rarely moved fast enough to keep up with the ever-widening scope of the human mind. So, of course, those with the financial and intellectual wherewithal found ways to jump through legal loopholes, and otherwise skirt, misuse and abuse the system.

There had grown a large, black-market cloning operation in the 20-teens, before every aspect of the process had been completed or perfected. Foreign nations, and even the United States, sought to create armies of military supersoldiers for top-secret operations, men who would not think to question orders, but would only follow one mission: destroy the enemy. Industries involving heavy physical labor copied their most productive and energetic workers. The sex industry took the process beyond every conceivable limit of decency, tailoring and crafting mindless slaves, genetic freaks whose sole purpose in life was for the physical pleasure of the perverse.

2024 had changed all of this, dramatically. While there were still a few powerful people who managed to continue their "business" underground, they were being hunted down, and their number had become fewer and fewer. Those mutants and slaves who could not be salvaged or trained to survive were euthanized. The discovery of neural transfer meant that clones would now be able to think for themselves almost immediately after creation. Their "birth" and use were heavily restricted and regulated by specially-created government bodies. Now, since most clones were not going to be walking the streets with the rest of humanity a majority of the time anyway, American society, with some vocal exceptions, generally didn’t mind their presence.

 Rayburn felt a breeze on his back, and turned to see Ian MacGregor, the doctor in charge of the procedure, standing behind him.

"Well, Colonel Rayburn, how are you feeling?" Neither MacGregor's face nor his Scottish burr betrayed a hint of emotion.

"OK., I guess. My head aches, and I have a slight buzz in my ears, but other than that...".

"Good!" The doctor's face lit up when he smiled, and he slapped Rayburn’s shoulder good-naturedly. "That’s splendid. Oh, by the way, your clone is doing just fine; the last EEG was completely normal. And, I might add, frighteningly similar to your own basal readings. This might be the best effort I’ve ever managed. But we won’t know for sure until he’s conscious."

"When will that be, Doctor?"

MacGregor looked at his watch. "Another hour, maybe two. He’s in normal REM sleep right now, and I want him to experience that. Dreaming does wonders for the brain; organizes thought patterns, relieves mental stress, resolves conflict... and he’s going to need those abilities rather soon."

Rayburn and MacGregor watched as a nurse-technician entered the ICU, and checked the clone’s readouts and physical condition. She nodded approval to MacGregor, then exited from view.

"Doctor MacGregor, how much of me will the clone remember? I mean, the neural network can’t be perfectly efficient yet."

MacGregor nodded. "You’re right about that. It might never be perfect. Usually, clones average around 40 to 50 percent retention rate right off the bat. The gaps are filled in using an intensive physical therapy and academic review program, under close supervision by a team physicians and psychotherapists."

"Do you ever have failures?"

"Of course we do. No scientific process is perfect. You’re a Ph.D, you ought to know that."

"What happens to them."

"Well, Colonel Rayburn, the word ‘failure’ is a very general term. There is the obvious case of destabilization, but that’s somewhat rare, more so now than ever. Usually, an unsuccessful effort by our current standards means that we end up with a clone who absorbs less than 30 percent of the originator’s brain capacity after neural transfer. This is termed a failure by NASA, but in actuality, that’s true only in the short term."

Rayburn’s interest was piqued by this conversation, and he wanted to get his recently anesthetized mind back in focus, anyway. "And what’s the long term result?"

"You know the law as well as I do. Any clone who has any capacity to live even a semi-normal life must be educated and trained to the best of its manufacturer’s ability. Sometimes, after five or ten years, the clone who had previously been termed a failure becomes a complete success. It’s just that the immediate value to their maker has been diluted."

"What about the really poor ones? Say, those who manage only 10 percent or less?"

"The manufacturer remains obligated to them, Colonel. There’s no more euthanasia, thankfully. Should a clone fail to pass muster, NASA must provide for its health, comfort and welfare for the rest of its natural life, no matter how long that is. The Department of Health has a whole sub-agency devoted to policing anyone who has received permission to clone human beings. Let me assure you, from personal experience, that they are very fastidious about their duties." MacGregor looked into Rayburn’s face, and saw the misgivings there. "You’re having doubts, aren’t you?"

Rayburn remained silent for a moment, then nodded his head slowly.

MacGregor smiled a little, a smile of understanding. "I have those same doubts. Any human being who even remotely believes in a power higher than ourselves has doubts."

"Then how can you do it, Doctor?"

"Because the clones are protected," MacGregor replied. "2024 made sure that a clone is considered just as much a human being under the law as you and I, with all the same rights and safeguards. The Act is a very moral one, even if the concept which it regulates is debatable."

Originally, when he first signed on, Rayburn hadn’t wanted to produce a clone of himself. However, his contract with NASA obligated him to one run-through. He never dreamed that he would be thought of so highly by his employers, and so the possibility hadn’t crossed his mind. He couldn’t help that he was so good at what he did.

"Just out of curiosity, what’s the best percentage neural transfer retention you’ve ever managed?"

MacGregor looked down at his feet while considering. "Probably the Headecker clone. She was about 80 percent ‘there’ when she woke up. Her whole supplemental education took only twenty-two weeks." He sighed wistfully. "That was a tragic loss. Just tragic."

MacGregor quickly slipped back into the present. "I nearly forgot the reason I came here, Colonel. Peter Wincott from NASA called about a half-hour ago. He wants you to call him at your earliest convenience. He’s at the Serpent Project hangar, so use your cellular. I’ll page you when it looks like the clone is waking up. It should be fairly soon. You’ll need to be there."

Rayburn nodded, and watched MacGregor hustle down the hallway and out of sight. He remembered the Headecker clone very well. Astronautics and space industries had grown massively in the first decade of the 21st century. But NASA was having problems producing enough qualified astronauts to meet demand. Cloning seemed the perfect solution; at first, such projects had to be undertaken using "black funds", carried on in complete secrecy, and with vigorous denials by all parties involved. But as the technology became better, and support grew among the masses, cloning for work in space became accepted practice.

Although it was rare that a clone ever equaled the performance of its originator, most handled their jobs more than adequately, and in many cases, spectacularly. Lena Headecker was one of the best astronauts, man or woman, that had ever lived. Her clone was nearly as successful. When the Titan Communications Satellite was ready to be launched and activated, no one else was even considered for the job; and Lena II happened to be next on the duty list.

Everything was going great; the clone survived the four-year trip with flying colors. Perhaps it was the rapport with her originator that made the journey so easy. They often seemed more like identical twin sisters, products of natural reproduction. Sometimes it appeared that they didn’t even have to speak to communicate, a trait not uncommon among twins.

After the Headecker clone had finished assembling the array in orbit of Titan, she was in the process of starting up the small nuclear battery when the unthinkable happened. It was a small chunk of ice, less than half a meter in diameter, perhaps a rogue from Saturn’s ring system. Defying all odds, and despite the expanse of the empty void that surrounded her, the ice chunk struck the Headecker clone. It had been moving at a speed of well over two kilometers per second.

The rescue drone, programmed to respond to any abnormal change in physiological readings, got to her less than 10 minutes. It pulled the top half of her body, which had been tethered to the satellite, back to her ship. The rest of her body was never found. It was widely believed (although the actual incident was shrouded in secrecy) that the psychological shock of seeing "herself" die must have been too much for the original Lena Headecker, who was safe at Mission Control in Houston. She collapsed, fell into a coma, and never reawakened. They pulled the plug on her only last year. No physiological cause for her death was ever determined. And out of respect for her wishes, no further clones of Lena Headecker were ever authorized.

Rayburn stifled a shiver, then walked down the hallway towards the Patients Lounge. He looked inside and made sure that (as usual) it was empty. Then he closed the door behind him, took out his cellular phone, and dialed the Hangar. He cleared three security checks, and punched in the daily password number. After a few seconds, his call was put through. The voice that answered the phone nearly deafened him.

"Gordy!! That’s gotta be you!"

"Yeah, Pete, it’s me." Rayburn smiled; Pete Wincott had great difficulty hiding his enthusiasm.

"So, how ya feelin’, buddy? And I don’t want to hear that you’re of two different minds on the subject."

Rayburn laughed; an oldie of a clone joke, but a goodie. "Actually, I feel all right. Head aches a little, but nothing major. So, how’s tricks?"

"You’ve gotta see the serpent, Gordy. It’s gonna knock ‘em dead. God willing, when this baby hits the European ocean, every Senator on the Hill is gonna be begging to give us money."

"I hope so, Pete. This cloning thing is really stretching NASA’s budget, and I was never a fan of it, anyway."

Pete scoffed at that. "C’mon, buddy. You’re the best we’ve got, and frankly, you’re the only pilot alive crazy enough to fly to Jupiter and land this ship on a ball of slush. If the law didn’t prohibit it, they’d probably make 10 of you."

Rayburn’s head began to ache with that thought. "Two’s enough, my friend. Anyway, Dr. MacGregor thinks it’s probably going to be half a year before he’s ready to go. So contain yourself until then, OK.?"

"No guarantees, Gordo."

Gordon was starting to feel the itch of being confined to a hospital for an extended period of time. Despite the fact that everyone treated him with respect and care, he still felt like he was in prison. "Say, Pete, what say you get a couple of techs, and maybe Syll Thompson, and we get ourselves a poker game going over here, huh?"

Pete laughed. "C’mon, Gordo. You know how my wife feels about poker games. I’d have to have three Base Security Guards making sure there were no cigars in the room. And unfortunately, Dr. Thompson is busy reading through some new data from our unmanned Jupiter probe. I’ll be sending you a copy of the readouts sometime tomorrow. Hey, maybe you can play checkers with your new ‘brother’ . But take it easy on him when you first start."

"Damn. Maybe you can send me a pizza."

"Hmm. I’ll see what I can do. Will the nurses let it in?"

"Yeah!" Gordon said too quickly. Then he thought better of it. "If they don’t know about it, and the delivery guy climbs up through my window dressed like a ninja."

"What did Cain say in Genesis?" Wincott cleared his throat dramatically, then warbled in a fair imitation of Charlton Heston, "This burden is more than I can bear." Pete loved quoting Verse. "Don’t worry pal, you’ll be a free man shortly. See ya in a week." The connection went silent.

Rayburn put his phone back into his pocket holster, and was about to get himself a cup of burnt coffee from the machine, when an announcement came over the P.A. "Astronaut Gordon Rayburn, report to intensive care. Astronaut Gordon Rayburn, please report to the ICU immediately."

Rayburn hustled back down the hallway, showed his ID holo to the guard, and entered.

He stopped short when he saw the one occupied bed. No matter what they said, he didn’t feel he would ever get used to seeing another one of himself. He felt quite disjointed, to say the least. Two nurses were checking the clone’s headwrap, making sure his vitals were stable. Dr. MacGregor sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, scribbling furiously on his clipboard. He didn’t even look up when Rayburn arrived.

"Ah, Colonel Rayburn, pull up a chair and sit behind the screen. Our friend here is waking up."

Rayburn found a chair and sat beside the doctor. The translucent privacy screen hid him from view. They waited a few minutes, and then the clone slowly opened his eyes. Both the doctor and Rayburn expected to hear the standard first questions any clone might ask, "Who am I?", "Where am I?", and so on. But that’s not what they got. Not even close.

"Dr. MacGregor," the man in the bed whispered. "Did it work? How’s the clone?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop 20 degrees. Those were the exact words the real Rayburn had uttered when he woke up. MacGregor was momentarily speechless. Then he gathered himself together. "Everything went extremely well. You are fine... and so is the real Colonel Rayburn."

Now it was the clone’s turn to be dumbstruck. He looked at his left wrist, and saw the tattoo. Then he slowly moved his hand to the back of his neck, and felt the newly acquired ridges of his bar code. "I can’t believe it." His voice was hoarse, but the confusion in it was unmistakable. "I’m the clone?"

MacGregor nodded, and kept writing while he talked. "That’s right, Mr. Rayburn. You are the clone. For a moment I was a bit flustered. Usually our clones ask different questions than the one you just asked. Obviously, you are of very high quality." He turned to the screen next to him. "Colonel Rayburn, please come out from behind the screen. I’ll need your help in running some tests."

The real Rayburn stood and folded up the screen. The clone looked utterly astonished as he watched. Gordon gave him a small, almost embarrassed wave of the hand.

MacGregor continued. "For the purposes of this test, I’m going to call the Clone ‘Ray’, and the originator ‘Gordon’. Ray, what’s your date of birth?"

Without hesitation, the clone replied, "May 4th, 1998."

"Your birthplace?"

"Mt. Kisco, New York."

"Your Social Security Number?"

"188-93-73-2211."

MacGregor looked at Gordon, who nodded back. The doctor continued on.

"Snap your right fingers."

Ray snapped as he was told.

"Your mother’s maiden name?"

"Gold."

"How many siblings do you have?"

"Two. My brother Steven, and my sister Irene, who died three years ago."

"Count from 100 to 1 by threes."

The clone performed as ordered. He could move all of his limbs, his motor and hand-eye coordination were nearly perfect, and he didn’t get any of the short test questions wrong. MacGregor laughed with glee. "Ray, I have to say that you are one of our finer accomplishments. Your answers on Part One indicate that you are, at the very least, 70 percent efficient."

The clone sighed. "That’s good to know." He did not appear to be overcome with emotion.

"Now we come to Part Two. Gordon is going to ask you questions. Things that he’ll think of off the cuff. This will help us fine-tune our efficiency rating. Gordon, you can begin when you're ready."

Gordon hesitated while he gathered his thoughts. Then he began.

"Who was our girlfriend when we were eight years old?"

The clone smiled. "Nikki Mendez. Ahh, she was cute, wasn’t she?"

Gordon smiled back. "Great head of brown hair."

"You mean blonde. We don’t go for brunettes." Ray winked at Gordon.

"What happened when we were sixteen that changed our lives forever?"

"The baseball strike. We gave up on a career in professional sports forever after that."

"Who betrayed us, Ray?"

"Ken Griffey III, that Union flunky. Who else?" Then to himself, "Backstabber."

Gordon smiled. "Right on. Let’s try another. What’s our greatest fear?"

Ray shivered at the thought of it. "Explosive decompression. Gets mighty cold in space."

"I am impressed." Gordon was quiet again, moving through the recesses of his memory. "OK. Let's try something else. I haven’t thought about this in quite a while, so don’t be upset if you don’t know it. When we were 24 we proposed to Deborah Fein. No one knows what happened except for me and Deborah. Tell me Ray, what happened?"

Ray’s smile disappeared. "Low blow, Gordon." He winced as if in physical pain, swallowed deeply, and then replied. "We were at Windows on the World when we asked her. She broke down crying, but not for the reason we expected. After we caught up with her, she confessed that she was born a genetic XY... a male. She had some kind of hormonal problem. Obviously, she couldn’t have children. She said that she never thought that anyone would ask her to marry, and that... she couldn’t in good conscience go through with it. After we literally passed out from shock, we told her it didn’t matter. That we loved her anyway. She... she wouldn’t hear it."

Ray’s eyes turned red, and he turned to look out the window next to him. "She committed suicide a month later. Well, the newspapers and police report said she lost control of her car and went over the embankment. But... we know better, don’t we?" A tear fell down his left cheek. "Man, you’re quite the Sigmund Freud, aren’t you?"

Gordon suddenly realized that his left eye was also tearing. He wiped it away. "I’m sorry."

Ray laughed, a bittersweet sound. "Hey, I’m sorry, too."

MacGregor watched the entire exchange, his tongue licking his lips the whole time like a hungry wolf. "Extraordinary. Just extraordinary."
 
 

Ray sat on an stationary exercise bicycle, his legs pumping and churning. He wasn’t pedalling very fast, but Ray wasn’t upset about it. The fact that, after only two weeks, he was pedalling at all was itself a minor miracle.

While clones were now grown to maturity completely within the confines of the laboratory, scientists hadn’t yet, and probably never would, figure out a way to endow them with their originator’s physical prowess and abilities immediately upon completion. Newly formed clones were, for lack of a better term, ‘soft’.

Educating the clone took relatively little time in comparison to the tortures of the physical therapy program. Ray spent hours every day lifting weights (he was up to 70 pounds on the bench press), and walking or jogging on the treadmill. For the first three days, Ray became so exhausted in the course of his workouts that he fainted midway through. He was beyond that now, well beyond that.

Dr. MacGregor stood by Ray’s bicycle, his everpresent clipboard in hand. His smile was a mile wide. "Ray, you continue to astound me."

Ray was breathing heavily (though not gasping), but he managed to answer. "How’s that, Doctor?"

MacGregor scribbled some quick calculations. "After only 16 days of therapy, you have already reached the point that most clones don't attair. even after 10 weeks."

Ray switched the video screen in front of him, and a new landscape replaced the desert he had been riding through. A country road, rolling hills (emulated by the bicycle), trees and birds replaced the sand and evening sun.

"How is it possible that I’m progressing this fast?"

MacGregor put his pencil down. "I believe that it can be attributed to your high quality. You seem to have not only acquired nearly all of Gordon’s intellect, but his muscle memory as well. Your body... already ‘knows’ how to move."

Ray laughed, a short, tired chuckle. "What, and other clones don’t?"

"Count yourself lucky, Ray. Some clones, when first formed, have the muscle control of a newborn baby, which is essentially what they are. Involuntary hand and foot movements, reflexive fetal position when sleeping, inability to communicate vocally, even though they understand everything being said to them. It’s only the artificially induced maturity of the muscle cells that allows for faster-than-normal acquisition of physical skills and agility."

Ray banked around a turn in the road; the bicycle banked with him. He seemed to have caught his second wind, and that pleased him greatly.

"How much more time do I have on the bike, Doc?"

MacGregor checked the chronometer. "Five minutes. Do you think you can make it? If you don’t...".

"No problem. In fact, I think I’d like to go for a little longer. Perhaps until I’m really tired."

MacGregor penciled in some more notes. "As you wish. We'll add 10 more minutes, and increase the tension."

Ray was pushing the bike up a hill now; his legs were feeling the pain, but it was a good feeling. His body craved that feeling, exertion and effort.

"Doctor, can I ask you a question?"

"If you still have some breath in you, of course."

"How do you think of me?"

MacGregor didn’t answer at first. Then, "I don’t understand what you mean."

Ray reached the top of the hill, and began to coast down. "Do you think of me as a person, or... as an experiment?"

MacGregor put his clipboard down on a nearby table. "Hmm. You know, in all my years in this business, I don't believe I’ve ever been asked that question."

Ray was now riding through a valley, with tall trees on both sides. "I find that strange. Isn’t it natural for a person to ponder the questions of his existence? I think Descartes said something like that."

"Perhaps. But I’ve never had a clone who woke up thinking they were the original. Not even Headecker. When I explain to a clone what they are, I’ve never had any of them react in any way other than complete acceptance. I mean, the proof is usually standing right in front of them."

Ray was out of the valley, and passing through a meadow. Cows chewed lazily on the high grass; the speakers on either side of him mooed. "So what about it Doctor? And I don’t mean your legal view. I’m talking philosophically, here."

The doctor considered. "Honestly, Ray, I don’t know how to answer that. Maybe it’s because I’m the one in the laboratory, switching cellular nuclei, creating the appropriate electrical fields. Clones are just the product of my tinkering around in a test tube."

The cows were gone, and Ray could see another hill looming on the horizon. He checked the chronometer, and saw that fifteen minutes had already passed. He was tired now, dog tired. He stopped pedalling, and the screen went blank.

Ray hopped off the hike, and smiled when he felt that there was still some spring in his legs. MacGregor smiled, too. The doctor picked up his clipboard again. "Well done, Ray, well done. Do you feel like trying some basketball? Apparently Gordon is quite good."

"Yeah, you know I used to play for the Air Force Academy until I blew my knee out on a jump. I... wait. Wait a minute. I know why you’re shaking your head, Doctor. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel like it was me."

MacGregor pointed to Ray’s left leg. "Look at your knee, Ray. No scar, no teflon, no nuts and bolts. You have never played basketball. And maybe, in a more general sense, that’s why I have such difficulty thinking of you as a real human being."

Ray walked over to the window, and looked over at the track. Gordon was running; the scar on his leg was clearly visible. Gordon must have felt someone’s eyes upon him. He looked right up into Ray’s window and waved. Ray waved back.

MacGregor joined him at the window. "But that doesn’t mean that I can't think about you as a human being, or refuse to think about you that way. Every clone I help to produce means quite a lot to me."

Ray turned to face the doctor. "Sure. If you make us well enough, you’ll get a hell of a lot of money. A great reputation, honorary doctorates, job offers...".

MacGregor shook his head. "You misunderstand. I take my responsibilities quite seriously. You are, in a sense, my ‘child’. I'm the one who put. you together, who made you whole. I swell with pride with every one of your accomplishments, and I hurt every time you fail. Just like any father would."

Ray went to his locker and took out his basketball sneakers. He began to close the locker door, then stopped. "Like a father, Doctor? Or like a god?"
 
 

"Rotate probe x +46.2 degrees and hold."

A brief pause. Then, "Roger, holding at positive 46.2 on x-axis."

"Thrusters at 10 percent for 3.3 seconds. Mark."

Three and a half seconds later, "Roger, thruster cut-off at 3.3 seconds."

"Activate docking clamps."

"Docking clamps open and active."

"Countdown to lock at 10 seconds. Mark. Nine... eight... seven ... six... five... four... three... two... one... lock clamps."

"Roger, we are docked. Sensors show a good seal. Pressurizing outer air lock and awaiting instructions."

A mechanical voice interrupted the proceedings. "Accuracy rating 99.5 percent. Efficiency rating 99.3 percent. Simulation complete."

"All right, Ray, slide out of there. Nice job."

A hatch on the wall next to the view screen opened up, and Ray Rayburn popped out. His hair was slicked back with sweat and he was breathing heavily, but the ear-to-ear grin spoke volumes.

Gordon shook Ray’s hand. "That’s as high as I ever scored. I think you’re ready to go."

Ray shook his head no. "Are you kidding me? Gordo, I’m exhausted. I’ve got to get my stamina up before you shoot me off to Jupiter. What, are you eager to get rid of me or something?"

"Not particularly, but don’t give me a reason." Gordon slapped Ray’s shoulder, then both men turned to see Peter Wincott and a cast of dozens heading their way. Wincott was practically ecstatic. "They’re coming," Gordon said curtly. "Remember to speak out loud." Ray nodded, then Wincott arrived.

"Guys, that was just brilliant. You’re one heckuva team."

Gordon and Ray answered in stereo. "Thanks, boss."

The analysis team laughed at the effect, as did the clone and his originator.

Gordon asked, "How long until Ray rides the snake?"

Wincott scratched his head. "According to our latest tech updates, we’re scheduled for a launch from geosynchronous orbit in eight weeks."

Gordon and Ray did the calculations in their heads. That would be January 26, 2036. Fifty years to the day from one of the greatest tragedies in the history of space exploration. Perhaps their mission would serve to ease the painful memory associated with that day.

Gordon and Ray spoke in unison again. "We'll be ready."

Wincott grinned. "I know you will. That’ll be one glorious morning. I'll see you at 1600 hours. We’ll be starting to run through some Serpent simulations, so study up."

A few of Wincott’s men shook Ray’s hand as they passed by. When they were gone, Gordon and Ray made a bee-line to the commissary. They continued their conversation, their lips unmoving.

"Gordo, how smart do you think it is to keep this quiet? I mean, what’s the big deal that we read each other’s minds?"

"I’m not so sure that’s what’s going on here, Ray. What if we’re sharing the same mind? One mind and two bodies. Because if that’s what this is, and people found out about it…".

"Yeah, the religious factions would be up in arms, every talk show and circus act in the country would fight to get us, the government would... hell, I don’t even want to think about that."

"Me neither," Gordon replied, a barely noticeable smirk on his face. "So stop it."

They hadn’t realized that they could communicate by thought until three or four weeks after Ray’s arrival. Gordon had always said he had a buzzing in his head, and at first he, and Dr. MacGregor, attributed it to the pain from the operation. But then Gordon realized that the buzz didn’t really hurt. It was more like an urge. Like hunger or thirst.

Ray had felt the same thing, only he attributed it to the fact that he was a newly-formed clone. There might be many sensations his body would perceive that would be unidentifiable or confusing at first.

Gordon and Ray had continued their question-and-answer sessions, even after Dr. MacGregor had been forced to move on to his next subject. Gordon had tried every conceivable way to stump his clone, but Ray’s brain seemed to contain Gordon’s entire knowledge base. Even their subconscious body language was identical, despite the fact that Ray hadn’t been alive for more than a month.

Then it happened. Ray was recounting a particularly dirty thought Gordon had once had, when suddenly Gordon asked, "Ray, what am I thinking?"

Ray’s leer-smile faded a bit. "What?"

"You heard me, Ray. What am I thinking?" Gordon closed his eyes.

Ray's face took on a quizzical look. He set his jaw, and concentrated. After a few seconds, both Gordon and Ray's eyes opened wide as china plates.

"You’re thinking about Mom. The ugly-ass orange apron she wore. The July 4th barbecue where you found out about Irene."

Gordon jumped from his chair. "I knew it!! I just knew it!"

"Gordo, can you tell me...".

"Our first parachute jump. Landed it dead solid perfect. Only two others in our squadron did that."

The two sat in stunned silence. Then, without opening his mouth, Gordon said, "Ray?"

Ray answered, "What does this mean, Gordon?"

"The buzz. That’s what the buzz is. Now that we’re communicating like this, it’s less tangible. It’s still there, but now it’s satisfied."

Ray smiled again. "You’re right. I’ve been wondering what that was."

The two men looked at each other. Then they thought the same thing to each other. "Tell no one." And they hadn’t. Not for three months.

They entered the commissary, where they ordered the same meal (turkey on rye, vegetable soup, Heineken in a bottle), and sat down at an empty table.

Ray attacked his sandwich while he spoke inside. "Gordo, do you think anyone suspects?"

Gordon sipped his beer. "Maybe Dr. MacGregor, but he hasn’t seen us much these past few weeks. I’m sure he’s got other things to worry about."

"By the way, have you seen the most recent images from Europa?"

Gordon belched silently, an artform mastered after years of practice at the Rayburn family table. "No. Why, what’s on the video?" He probed Ray’s mind and saw what he had seen. "Whoa."

"Interesting stuff, huh?" Ray picked up a newspaper and began to pretend to read it. "Syll Thompson from Life Sciences says that’s a live image of something swimming past the lens."

"Could be an artifact. A rock. A small iceberg. Even a lighting illusion."

"Yeah, that’s what Wincott thinks. But Thompson insists she detected some motion within the object itself, not just that of whatever it is passing in front of the camera."

"Ray, I don’t care how pretty she is." He stopped mid-thought. "Well, actually, I do care. If I had your guts as well as mine, I might even ask her to dinner. But you know as well as I do that Syll Thompson believes that trees are sentient."

"Maybe they are, Gordo. Maybe they are." They smiled at each other, threw out their mess, and left the commissary.

A janitor wiping down a nearby table pulled a cellular out of his pocket and hit a button. "Sir, it’s the ‘100 twins’. I've got it on film. The whole thing, sir. Many different facial expressions. In my opinion, yes, sir. It’s on its way to you now." He went back to his work.
 
 

Gordon and Ray ran around the track like robots. Their stride was perfectly in step. They breathed at exactly the same pace. They could both go on running for about four more miles.

Dr. MacGregor was more than pleased with Ray’s progress when he performed the last of his pre-flight physicals. He was now on par with Gordon in every respect. In fact, his leg strength was slightly higher due to the absence of prosthetics. When MacGregor began asking them the questions that made up the psychological profile, he had never once hinted at any knowledge of Gordon and Ray’s shared ability. He had officially classified Ray as 91 percent successful, an all-time high in NASA’s clcning program. Gordon and Ray knew better. Ray would sometimes answer questions differently just to throw the track a little. It seemed like the smart thing to do.

Over their combined breathing the sound of that evening’s designated protestors could be heard. Protestors were limited to a small parking lot about a mile away from NASA’s training facilities. Tonight it was "God’s Children", an ultra-conservative, violence-promoting offshoot of the Christian Coalition. They used bullhorns and shouted until their throats caved in. But their cries had become so regular and redundant that they were completely ignored. Tomorrow, the Green Party would take their turn.

NASA had many different groups of protestors, so many that each was assigned specific hours and days of the week to make their opinions known. There were the environmentalists who spewed venom every time a shuttle or rocket was launched. The fact that the only by-product of the liquid hydrogen and solid-oxygen booster tanks was a giant cloud of steaming water made no difference. If the fuel was clean, then there was too much noise pollution and damage to the surrounding ecosystems from building construction.

Several private corporations had taken to picketing against NASA; they all felt that they were being shut out of potential profits from lost vehicle construction and technology upgrade contracts. McDonnell-Douglas and Boeing would chant and march as loud and angry as anyone else.

Of course, there were too many religious groups and other fanatics to be counted. Orthodox Jews, Buddhists, Moslems, the Christian Coalition; all had different reasons for their fury. Geocentrism, redistribution of monies to the poor and unfortunate, belief that secret negotiations with alien civilizations were already taking place; if there was a reason, no matter how outlandish, there were protestors.

But the one common cry every one of these groups had taken up was against cloning. Environmentalists feared a Malthusian population explosion of devastating proportions. Corporations felt that they were at a disadvantage, because private companies were not allowed to replicate the best and brightest of their work force (this was allowed only for nationalized industries, and only for extremely hazardous and high-skilled work; a two-thirds vote of Congress was required for approval) Conspiracy theorists posited that extraterrestrial DNA was being incorporated into these clones, who would one day take over the world.

It was the religious protestors, however, who presented the most striking and effective argument, effective in that there was no way to refute it in actual fact. Miraculously, this one issue was greatly responsible for the end of violence and bloodshed between religious nations and groups; that, and the neutron bombing of Damascus and Teheran by Israel.

Simply put, every religion, no matter how disparate in custom, believed in the concept of the immortal soul; that God (it didn’t matter which) gave each person one, and only one; that cloning created the possibility of two individuals sharing one soul, or of a human being not even having a soul; and that this was an abomination, a sacrilege, an attempt by man to eliminate God from the mystical equation of life.

Gordon and Ray listened to the jeers and heckles, but it was just background noise to them. It might once have bothered Gordon (and therefore Ray); but now that he had becomes so attached to his clone, he had no doubt that cloning was a great and worthwhile concept.

They ran for another 30 minutes (4.4 miles) then walked to cool down. They had become so adept at speaking via thought that they had begun to make a conscious effort to use the vocal chords nature had provided, just so they wouldn’t forget the art form.

"Your knee’s aching, isn’t it Gordo?"

Gordon flexed his left leg. "It’s not that bad."

"I know it’s not that bad, but we should still be careful."

"True enough." Gordon tock the bottle of Gatorade from his belt pouch, and took a swig. Then he passed it to Ray. "It’s pretty chilly tonight."

Ray sniffed the air. "Well, it is January, even if we are in Florida."

There was a moment of true silence between them, a rarity in their relationship. Then Gordon said, "You’re like my brother, Ray. You are my brother, for God’s sake. And six years is a long time."

Ray smiled. "I'll make it. We’ll make it. We’ll talk to each other all the time. I’ll live through you, and you’ll live through me."

Gordon stopped walking, and looked at the stars, which were just starting to make their appearance. "I wonder how it would have been if you’d only made it to 50 percent. Or 40."

"I’ll tell you one thing." Ray stopped walking further up the track. "I would have been lonely. Even with you right there. Can you imaging living any other way but this? Can you imagine that you were once by yourself in the world?"

Gordon thought about it. "No. Honestly, I can’t even remember what it felt like."

Ray looked at Gordon for a long few seconds. "You want to tell someone, don’t you?"

Gordon looked away from the sky, and back at Ray. "Don’t you? We don’t have that much time left."

Ray pulled his sweatshirt on, and took a deep breath. It smelled of cypress and rocket fuel. "Rabbi Mandel is on Chaplain’s duty tomorrow night. We’ve spoken to him a few times, he’s a good guy."

"Yeah, he is."

They saw the Rabbi the next day. Gordon had never practiced any organized religion (his father had deemed religion the root of all evil), but that did not stop him from believing in a force responsible for the creation of the universe. And while Catholicism, Islam, and Buddhism all had more practitioners, and several fascinating and worthwhile tenets and doctrines, Judaism, his mother’s creed, seemed to come the closest to the ‘bare bones’ of Gordon’s own basic beliefs.

As they entered the All-Purpose Chapel, they nearly rammed into Pete Wincott. Pete dropped a file he was carrying, and papers scattered everywhere. The three men began to gather them up.

"Sorry about that guys," Pete managed to spit out over his own laughter. "That must have looked ridiculous."

Gordon and Ray gave each other a mischievous glance, then said in unison, "It happens to us all the time."

Pete laughed even more. "I wonder how you guys would sound in Dolby. Y’know, it’s good to see you coming here; I don’t recall ever seeing you in church."

Gordon replied, "Well, we don’t usually have time. But with the launch date coming up, a little praying certainly can’t hurt."

Pete nodded knowingly. "Too true. Just remember, Salvation lies within. Thus sayeth the Lord. And that lesson applies even to men of science."

Gordon and Ray handed Pete his papers, which he quickly sorted back into order. He put them back into the file container- a regular manila folder, blank except for a blurred company logo. Ray looked at it carefully. "Hey, Pete, didn’t we stop doing business with Terragen, Inc.?"

"Yeah, they lost that big cloning patent suit against us, remember? But they used to give us stationery and office supplies for Christmas gifts. I’d stash it away, but now I have so much it’s coming out of the air conditioning vents over in the lab."

Gordon smiled knowingly. "That's like me and socks, Pete. If I had a dollar for every pair of socks I’ve gotten for a gift and never worn ... well, let’s just say I could afford to grow me a triplet."

Pete chuckled warmly. "Anyway, I figure I’ll just use it until it’s gone. This paper is six years old, it’s already wearing away." He rubbed his hand on the faded ‘globe’ logo, and blue, green and brown ink appeared on his palm. Then Pete’s eyes lit up with an idea. "Hey, you guys want a couple of reams of paper? There’s no charge. Really, it’d be my great pleasure...".

"No thanks," Ray said emphatically. "I don’t need that crap clogging up my office."

"Y’know, that’s one cheapo gift," Gordon added. "Hell, even Boeing sends Godiva chocolate baskets."

"C’mon, guys, it’s the thought that counts, right?" He wiped his palm on his pants leg, leaving a nice multi-colored smudge. "This stuff is a gift that just keeps on giving." Pete straightened his jacket and tie, and returned to his normal meticulous state of appearance. "Thanks for the help, fellas. Go find yourselves some peace of mind."

Pete hustled off into the night, towards the parking lot and, in all probability, home to his wife.

Rabbi Mandel saw them almost immediately. When they told the rabbi about their ability, and demonstrated their "oneness" to him, they half-expected him to cry "Blasphemers!", and call for the hand of God to strike them dead. Instead, Mandel simply said, "Hmmm. That’s quite something."

Then there was silence. Ray asked, "Don’t you have anything to say, Rabbi?"

"Sure, but where do I begin? I still don’t understand what you’re looking for from me."

Gordon responded. "How about a moral or ethical position on our existence? Or your opinion concerning whether Ray has a soul?"

The Rabbi considered. Then, "No, I don’t think that’s it. I think that, on the most basic of levels, you're looking for forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?", Gordon and Ray said together?

The Rabbi chuckled. "Very funny. Yes, forgiveness. As if you had done something wrong. Or that Ray’s very existence were a sin. Some of my Orthodox colleagues would say that you," pointing at Gordon, "are beyond forgiveness. and that you," now to Ray, "are not even a human."

"And what do you think, Rabbi?" Ray’s voice betrayed his fear, his insecurity.

"I don’t know what to think. Somehow, I wonder if even God could have foreseen how far and how fast mankind has progressed in the understanding of his physical self. But frankly, if God wanted to put an end to the process of cloning, he would find a way." He closed his prayer book, sitting in front of him on the table, and continued. "One thing I am sure of is this; we will never understand, at least on God’s terms, the spiritual self."

"Where does that leave us?", Gordon said softly.

"As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Rayburn, you are both men. Men with spirits, men with souls. Even if Ray did not arise from God’s procreative method of choice, God created the men and the processes that resulted in Ray’s birth. In the end, God alone is responsible for your being here, and He would never allow a man or woman to be born who did not have a soul."

"Do we share a soul?" the two astronauts asked together.

The Rabbi ruminated on that question for quite a few seconds. "It is conceiveable. You say that even when you are apart, you share each others thoughts and feelings. And there is a popular saying among geneticists: ‘God is in the genes’. Your genes are the same. Exactly the same. If your soul is some genetically coded part of you, then yes, your souls are identical, or maybe even one. But that’s a question that is just about impossible to answer."

The Rabbi stood up, and began to fold up his tallis. "As far as forgiveness is concerned, if I were a Catholic priest I could offer it to you straight away. But I’m not. Then again, I’m not really sure if either of you have done anything blameworthy. Ray cannot help being what he is. And Gordon has lived his life the way he has lived it. If God chooses to write you into his Book of Life for another year, he will. If he doesn’t, well...".

Gordon and Ray could see that the Rabbi was wrapping up the conversation. They rose and offered their hands to Mandel, who took them both together. Gordon said, "Thank you for seeing us, Rabbi. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve been a great help."

The Rabbi grinned. "I’m glad. Remember, that’s my job. I bless you both, and wish you peace. Oseh shalom bim’romav, hu ya’a’seh shalom, aleynu v’al kol yisrael, v’imru, amen." He turned to Ray. "Safe journey."

The Rayburns exited the chapel, to return to their living quarters. When they turned the corner, Dr. MacGregor was standing in front of them. His arms were crossed, one foot tapping. "Well, gentlemen. Do you have something to tell me?"
 
 

MacGregor sat behind his desk, clipboard in hand. His normally pale face was red with fury. "How long did you think you could keep this from me? How long?"

Neither Rayburn answered. MacGregor stood and slammed his clipboard into his desk, papers scattering every which way. "Do you know how dangerous this could be? Do you even realize what risks you’re running here?"

After an awkward moment of silence, Gordon asked, "Doctor, how long have you known? Did Rabbi Mandel... ?"

"Stop being ridiculous. Mandel wouldn’t do that to you, he’s a clergyman, for God’s sake." He pulled a Cuban cigar out of his pocket and lit it. "You really should make an effort to speak more quietly in the Chapel, by the way. There’s a real problem with reverberation in there." MacGregor walked over to the big plate glass window, overlooking the track. A trail of black smoke followed him. "I wasn’t really sure until tonight. But there were plenty of signs. First there were your EEG’s. Even the most successful clones don’t match up like that. But that wasn’t really enough to start me rolling. They weren’t completely identical right off the bat."

It was Ray's turn. "Then what did it?"

MacGregor lowered his voice a bit, controlling his rage. "It wasn’t any specific thing. But the pieces added up. At your first Q & A session, Ray cried in response to a question. Gordon cried as well- one tear, left eye, rolling slowly down your faces. At the very least, I suspected that you two were empathic."

Gordon and Ray looked at each other, as if they had just stumbled upon some revelation. At the same time, they asked, "Were you spying on us?"

The doctor didn’t answer immediately. He looked the Rayburns over, especially their faces. Then a grim smile appeared. "Of course I was. Considering the game you’ve been playing, can you fault me?"

Both Gordon and Ray made to answer, but MacGregor waved them off. "Don’t get too upset. Surveillance of clones in the early stages of their development is SOP for NASA. No one is treated any differently in your position. But my people were under orders to observe you both for any odd or peculiar behavior."

"And what did your people see?" It was Gordon this time.

"Only one particular thing. It appeared to them that on several occasions you were conversing without physically talking. Facial expressions, emotional reactions, that sort of thing. Still, there wasn’t anything concrete. Until I started studying your mission simulation results."

Neither Gordon nor Ray said anything. But the look on their faces showed their bemusement.

"At one of your November physicals, I implanted a free-floating metabolic sensor into Gordon’'s left arm. I told you that you were overdue for a vaccination, which happened to be true. But all the same, it was a great cover."

Gordon looked at his arm, then at the doctor. He was not at all pleased. "Doctor, that was a violation of my privacy. You have no right...".

"You’re wrong, Colonel Rayburn," the doctor interrupted. "I have every right, where I have probable cause to believe that the health of a NASA employee or the integrity of a mission are on the line. You can debate it all you want. In the end, I’ll win."

Ray asked, "Whatever happened to medical ethics?"

MacGregor snorted in disgust. "Ethics. Hah! If anyone has been unethical here it’s been you two. You were instructed... no, ordered, to inform me of any anomalous conditions either of you experienced." He pointed a finger. "Especially you, Ray. I told you in the course of our sessions together that there have been instances of clones physically and/or mentally destabilizing, a catastrophic failure resulting in death. Do you remember that?"

Ray didn’t answer. MacGregor didn’t expect him to. "Every clone thinks the same way after a while. ‘It can’t happen to me, they made me too well.’ Do you understand how little we really know about this process? If I told you the details of clone destabilization... well, I’m not about to make myself feel any more sick than I already do."

The doctor chomped down on his cigar, his face purple as a beet. Even his beard couldn’t cover that. He went back to addressing both Rayburns. "You have been concealing your medical condition from NASA for months. A condition which, if not properly monitored, could have grievous consequences for both of you. You’re lucky I don’t call the Director’s Office and have both of you declared unfit for duty right now."

Gordon and Ray realized that everything MacGregor had said was true. Just because they felt great, and functioned far more efficiently than they used to, did not mean that some problem would not arise later on. They were both mortified.

MacGregor calmed himself down. "Nothing to say for yourselves, I see. Well, now that I’m in on your secret, and now that I’ve hopefully succeeded in scaring the hell out of you, let me say that, deep down, I don’t really blame you. I’m not even particularly angry with you. I understand that your desire to go on this mission probably overwhelmed your logical impulses and good sense. I have felt this way myself, on many occasions. And I’m sure that the protestors you hear every night in the parking lot don’t exactly make you feel too secure."

He reached down to the floor and picked up the papers that had fallen. After putting them back in order, he gave them to the Rayburns. "Whenever Ray was performing a simulated mission run-through, both of your EEG’s would merge into one absolutely identical reading. When the run was over, and when you were separated, each of your EEG’s returned to its normal, ‘close-but-not-quite’ reading."

Gordon and Ray inspected the charts. Gordon asked, "Did this happen every time?"

"Yes. Every time. It also happens when you communicate telepathically. An absolute convergence of your neural energy."

Ray looked confused. "Doctor MacGregor, you must have known about this for at least a month. Why didn’t you come to us earlier?"

"I thought... hoped... that natural curiosity or apprehension about your condition would drive you to come to me on your own. I thought, Ray, that you would trust me. Lena Headecker’s clone did."

Ray did a double-take. "Lena Headecker and her clone...?"

MacGregor nodded. "100 percent, just like you two. And there have been others. Not too many, but a handful." He puffed a smoke ring into the air. "We’re getting better at what we do."

Neither Gordon nor Ray could speak. MacGregor smiled. "Now you can understand the potential danger here. In all likelihood, it was the death of the Headecker clone that caused the death of the original. And I’m not talking about an emotional shock. I’m talking about the fact that their minds were joined together, just as yours are. What one experiences, the other experiences."

Gordon and Ray again looked at each other, then asked in unison, "What’s going to happen?"

"To you? Nothing. NASA has no official policy on originator-clone pairings with your ability. To them, improved job performance, ability to directly supervise and oversee deep space missions, and additional emotional support balances the potential for a double loss. And I’m not going to be the person who stands in the way of you achieving your greatest glory. Besides, Ray, you are my greatest glory, and I am just dying to see how you do."

Both Rayburns sighed with obvious relief. MacGregor continued. "However, for the next 17 days, any moment of free time you have will be spent in my offices. We must try to take precautions, to see what we can do to protect you from the possibility of a repeat of the Headecker situation. Is that acceptable to both of you?"

There was no hesitation from either of them. "Absolutely."

"Good. Then let’s begin."
 
 

January 26, 2036 came upon Gordon and Ray like a freight train. In between completing every conceivable mission simulation, physical training, and satisfying the press junket, the Rayburns spent any time they had with Dr. MacGregor. Experts in meditation, psychotherapy, and biofeedback drilled them in multiple techniques, hoping to find some way to uncouple them mentally and psychically.

The results were mixed. At flight time, Gordon and Ray had learned how to set up psionic blocks, to make it far more difficult to read what the other was thinking. But underneath it all, there was still a connecting thread. No matter how deep the wedge was pushed, the pair could not be cleaved entirely. MacGregor hoped it was enough.

Gordon was on the mission prep team, and accompanied Ray on the shuttle to the U.N. Satellite Launching Station, in geosynchronous orbit directly above Houston. Neither spoke a word. In fact, very few thoughts passed between them. The only one that kept creeping up was fear; not of the success or failure of the mission, as they were supremely confident in their own abilities. It was the fear of separation which made their hearts beat just a little faster.

The shuttle pilot called the two to the front window as they made their final approach. Hanging in front of them was the Serpent (the official probe name was Hydra I, but no one called it that). The combination probe/exploratory vessel hung suspended, tethered to the station by three nearly invisible mooring clamps. It basked in the sunlight, finally completed after years of work both in space and on the ground.

Gordon and Ray spent several minutes taking in the spectacle, then went back to their seats as the docking lights came on.

When the air-lock had pressurized, the doors to the SLS slowly opened. Waiting for the team were Syll Thompson, head of the Life Sciences division, and Peter Wincott, leader of the Serpent construction corps. Wincott grabbed Gordon’s hand.

"Gordo, how was the flight. up?"

"Not terrible, actually. Very little atmospheric turbulence this time. By the way, how’d you know it was me and not Ray?"

Pete pointed to Gordon's chest. "Maybe it was your name tag?", he asked mischievously.

Gordon had forgotten his jumper had one sewn on, and smiled sheepishly. "Ahhh."

Pete made sure that Gordon’s hand hold was secure, then handed him a set of magnetized shoe soles to counteract the low gravity. Once Gordon was all set, Pete did the same for Ray.

When everyone was ready, Pete led the way to the crew quarters, where Gordon and Ray stowed their gear. Then the foursome went into the Conference Room down the hall. The room had a great view of Earth, thanks to the nearly wall-sized window (made of a hard-as-steel plastic polymer).

Syll Thompson lowered a film projector from the ceiling and set up a view screen, then began the last mission briefing Ray would have.

"We’ve just decoded the last digital transmission from our robot probe. Unfortunately, its propulsion mechanism has broken down, and the camera fell to the ocean floor approximately 290 meters below the ice crust. However, it fell nose up, as designed, and the camera and lighting equipment were undamaged."

Ray asked, "So what is the probe picking up, if anything? I mean, now something has to swim in front of the lens in order for us to see it."

Syll nodded in agreement. "That is precisely what has happened. Not once, but on four separate occasions, within a time span of 7 hours."

Gordon and Ray looked at each other, then at Syll. "What did it pick up?", Gordon asked.

"Watch and see," Pete said quietly. His face showed no emotion, which was odd for the usually irrepressible Wincott. "By the way, I’m sure that I don’t have to remind you that this is all classified, Nova Clearance. We haven’t even told the President yet."

Thompson began to run the film. It must still have been day time on Europa when the images were taken. The ridges and cracks of Europa’s icy covering were clearly visible, despite the distance. Even with the mechanical malfunction, the design for the robot probe had proven quite excellent. Europa’s water was crystal clear; had it not been for the bubbles that occasionally passed in front of the lens, one would have thought that the image was of a frozen moon’s surface, taken from above.

The film moved at high speed as long as the probe detected nothing of interest. After 45 seconds, the tape slowed down to normal feed rate. In the upper left corner of the picture, a dark shape appeared. It was difficult to make out any details, as it was swimming nearly right against the ice. But whatever it was, it was big, and it was curious. When it reappeared an hour or so later, it brought company.

The Rayburns watched, astounded by what they saw, overwhelmed by the implications. When it was over, Gordon asked, "How is this going to affect the mission?"

Syll replied, "At first, NASA nearly decided to just tell President Vessnover, and risk him pulling the plug on the whole thing. The Europan Ocean is enough of an unknown quantity. Throw life-forms into the mix, and it could turn explosive. However, I convinced our bosses that the mission should proceed. The creatures, whatever they are, never approached the camera, and made no hostile moves. They’re probably afraid of the probe. Imagine how much more afraid they’ll be of the Serpent."

Ray asked, "But what about the dangers of contamination? What if some microbe were to get into the water there, and wipe out the entire Europan ecosystem?"

Wincott took over. "We’ve altered the trajectory that the Serpent will take to get to Jupiter. We’ll be slingshotting you around Venus; your approach towards the Sun will ensure a nice bath of UV radiation on the outer hull. You’ll be protected more than adequately inside the craft. But anything on the outside will die. With the Serpent’s resultant increased velocity to counteract the longer trip, you’ll actually arrive right on schedule, almost down to the hour."

Gordon and Ray were quiet for a moment. Then Ray spoke again. "And what are my orders concerning a possible First Contact?"

Syll answered. "They’ve been downloaded into the Serpent’s computer system. You’ll have three years to review them, and we’ve added some simulation programs to help prepare you for any contingency we could think of."

Wincott put a hand on Ray’s shoulder. "I know it’s a big responsibility. One you haven’t prepared for. But I also know that you and the Serpent can handle it. And when this is all over... you’ll be the proud owner of a priceless piece of history. And that’s God’s honest truth."

Ray smiled at Pete, and then at Gordon. "All right, then. Let’s do it." Gordon smiled back, his face the perfect picture of confidence. But it didn't take much effort to feel the combination of anxiety, terror, and expectation that Ray was trying so desperately to hide.
 
 

Ray sat in his leather seat in the Serpent’s control center, and stared out the window while Gordon strapped him in. Jupiter was very visible, outshining every other object in the black tapestry except for the Earth, Moon and Sun.

Ray felt cold; the planet’s light brought no warmth or comfort.

Gordon pulled on the safety harnesses, and nodded, satisfied. Then he turned to face Ray. "You ready?"

Ray gave a thumbs-up. "You bet."

Gordon watched the other technicians and engineers finish their systems checks and diagnostics; soon, every light above Ray’s head flashed a steady green. All Systems Go.

Gordon’s face softened from its state of frozen concentration. His lips formed a smile. "Ray, I am jealous as hell of you."

Ray smiled back. "And I of you." He reached out his hand, and Gordon gripped it hard. "Make a life for yourself, Gordo. Don’t dare wait for me to come back. Got it? No matter how much we’re the same, we are separate people, with separate lives. If your name comes up for mission duty, take it."

Gordon replied, "I will. And you... don’t be a hero."

"Yeah, right." Ray saw the tear trailing down Gordon’s face. He couldn’t reach through his face plate to wipe his own away. For just a second, both men opened their minds completely (even though MacGregor had strongly urged them not to do so).

Gordon stepped back out of the hatch. "See you in six years." Two technicians helped him push the door shut. Ray heard the air-lock seal; this cylinder was now his home. As he went through his own pre-flight check, he noticed the corner of an envelope under his seat. He reached down and pulled it up. ‘Ray’ was written on its face.

He tore open the envelope, took out the one page letter inside, and began to read.

"Dear Ray,

You will never know how proud I am of you. You’ve come farther than I imagined possible, and now you will go farther than most men have ever dreamed. Drink deep, etch what you see into your memory, for it is our own unique experiences that make each of us a man. That is what you are, as much as I; and I would have been proud to call you my son.
 
 

Ian"
 
 

Ray smiled, more genuinely and meaningfully than he ever had in his short life. Then he looked straight ahead, took a deep breath, and focused on the pinpoint of light, the distant world that was his future.

Gordon went down to the observation deck, and joined the dozens of people who had worked so hard on the project. The docking clamps disengaged, and a small burst of air from a lateral thruster pushed the Serpent free. It was bathed in light, some from the sun, some from the camera and recording equipment of the media junket which had been allowed access to the launch.

After approximately 15 minutes, and some acrobatic spins, the Serpent reached its launch position. Then, after a 10 second automated countdown, the engines fired, a blinding but beautiful dance of light. In an hour, the ship was gone.

Soon the crowd filed out of the Deck, to attend a reception and press conference. Syll Thompson was the last to leave. Or so she thought. Her face hurt from smiling so much, but she couldn’t help being proud of all that she’d done. The launch represented five years of unyielding and unending work, five years of her life devoted and sacrificed. The way she figured it, she was going to get drunk with the boys tonight, no matter how unladylike that was. As she was about to turn off the lights, she saw a figure in the corner. It was Gordon, staring out the window.

She walked up and stood next to him. His face was a blank. Syll had never looked very closely at that face before. It was a handsome one, even more so than Ray’s. It was the little imperfections that gave it character. She cleared her throat. "Gordon, everyone’s next door at the reception. Do you want to come with me?"

Gordon didn’t answer. He just kept staring. "Gordon, are you all right?" She put a hand on his shoulder.

Gordon turned to Syll, moved his mouth as if trying to speak. Then he started to cry. To sob like a child. He put his hand on the railing to keep from falling, his body was wracked with wave upon wave of grief.

Syll was frightened. Although she didn’t know him particularly well, she had never seen him like this before; even at his father’s funeral seven years ago. He’d been completely stoic then, completely in control. He hadn’t even shed a tear.

She put her hands on his shoulders, and tried to comfort him. "It’s going to be all right, Gordon. He’ll be fine."

"He’s gone," Gordon managed to spit out between sobs. "He’s gone… he’s gone…". He couldn’t say anything else.

Syll held him closer. "It’s OK, Gordon. It’s OK. You just take your time." She put her cheek next to his; she was shocked to find that she now had to hide tears of her own. She couldn’'t believe the depth of the love Gordon felt for Ray, the strength of the bond between them. And somewhere deep within herself, she began to hope that he might one day be able to care about someone else as much.

Several million miles inside Earth’s orbit, as the sun began to swell in the window of the Serpent, Ray activated the Serpent’s heat shields. And his own.
 
 

Gordon got the call at 3 AM. Actually, it was Syll that answered the phone. She slept on that side of the bed. After hearing that Ray was about to enter Europan orbit, any cobwebs in Syll Rayburn’s head disappeared. She turned to shake Gordon awake, but he was already jumping out of bed trying to put his feet in his pants two legs at a time.

They dropped the baby off at her mother’s house. Then Gordon nearly put his ‘35 Infiniti into orbit on the way to Mission Control. The needle on the speedometer flew up to 200 mph; it stayed pinned there for the entire trip. Lucky the roads were so flat (and empty) in this part of Texas.

The guard at the check-in booth knew Rayburn’s car by sight, and opened the gate when he was still a mile away. Gordon didn’t even so much as slow down, even for the speed bumps.

After parking the car haphazardly across three spots in the lot, he grabbed his wife’s hand and ran into Mission Control. No one asked them for ID; they wouldn’t have heard such a request, anyway.

The elevator ride seemed to take an eternity, at least to Syll. She looked over at Gordon, and saw that he was staring straight ahead, unblinking. She touched his shoulder and asked, "Gordon, are you communicating with him?"

He did not turn to her, but he nodded. His voice came out a hoarse whisper. "I’m trying. He’s engaging braking thrusters right now. The Serpent will enter the Europan atmosphere in ten seconds... nine... eight...".

Syll realized that Gordon was vocalizing Ray’s own words for her. Ray was the one counting down; Gordon was just parroting him.

They reached the top floor, and hustled up the metal staircase. The ‘tap tap’ of their footsteps echoed in the cavernous room. There were illuminated computer screens everywhere, each one manned by a tech, each one being monitored for even the slightest anomaly. So far, everything appeared to be fine. The atmosphere was quite calm, given the circumstances.

Two huge view screens filled the walls on opposite sides of the room. One displayed graphics and mission telemetry. The other was the camera feed from the Serpent. It was a live feed; but due to the tremendous distance between Earth and Europa, there was now a long delay between what was actually occurring and what was being seen in Mission Control.

Gordon would help eliminate that delay. Distance did not affect the link between the Rayburns. They were, in fact, an ansible. Ansibles had been written about by science fiction authors for decades, but science had been unable to produce one until cloning technology began to improve; and even then, it was a happy accident.

The theory behind an ansible was fairly simple; all that was required was two exactly identical particles of matter. If these existed, with identical wave frequencies and nuclear structures, they could be used for instantaneous communication, no matter what the distance between them, and no matter what laws of physics and time-space seemed to be violated. Gordon and Ray were living proof.

Peter Wincott was seated at one computer terminal, monitoring the Serpent’s mechanical and instrumental read-outs. Syll’s replacement, Colleen Westerby, was completely engrossed by the visual images being transmitted back from Europa. The long-time Mission Control coordinator, Greg McNair, jumped out of his chair and raced over to Gordon.

"Well, Gordy, how’s he doing?"

Gordon smiled, a confident grin. "Atmospheric entry is proceeding smoothly. Hull temperature is 550 degrees Kelvin, well within established safety parameters. All systems nominal." He paused for a moment, then continued. "Ray’s doing just fine."

Greg clapped his shoulder. "Good. Syll, feel free to join Ms. Westerby at her station. I’m sure she’ll be more than interested in your observations."

Usually, inactive and off-duty personnel were not allowed access to Mission Control, but for the past two and a half years, Syll and her husband had been inseparable. Plus, there was no point in kicking out one of the former heads of the project, who probably had forgotten more about it than her successor knew.

"Thanks, Greg," Syll replied, and hurried over to join Westerby at her station.

Greg directed Gordon to an empty chair, and sat down next to him. "Pretty bizarre situation, huh? Knowing what’s going on almost two hours before we’ll see it?"

"Yeah. It’s bizarre, all right." Gordon took a deep breath. "I’m ready to go into full ansible mode, Greg. Is everyone else all set?"

Greg nodded. "Affirmative. Take your station, Captain."

Gordon stood up, and made his way to the Serpent cockpit simulator. He removed all of his clothing except for his skivvies, and waited patiently for the med techs to wire him up. He took a few nervous breaths. He was about to fully let down his mental defenses for the first time since Ray had left Earth orbit, and the thought scared him a little. But he was also filled with anticipation; in a few minutes, Gordon would "be there", at Europa, navigating the oceans with Ray.

When the prep team exited the simulator, Gordon gave a big "thumbs-up" sign. He smiled at Dr. MacGregor, who sat right outside the clear glass door at the Life Sciences station. MacGregor gave him a mock salute in return.

Syll was now seated right next to the doctor. She mouthed an "I love you" to her husband, who mouthed it right back to her. Then he activated the simulator, closed his eyes, and opened his mind. The next time he spoke, it was Ray’s words which were being heard. The two were one.

"Mission Control, this is Ray Rayburn. Glad to join you this fine morning."

"Ray, this is Greg McNair. Glad to hear that everything is proceeding smoothly. What’s your vector, Captain?"

Not even a brief pause. "Atmospheric entry has been completed, and the balloon-chute system has been activated. I am approximately five kilometers above the Europan ice crust, travelling on a vector of z-minus 33.6 degrees. There are plenty of rifts and cracks down there, but no exposed water. I will therefore make direct surface contact, take required ice core and water samples, activate the diamond drill, and make a slide entry into the ocean."

"Sounds about right, Ray. What’s the weather like?"

"We’ve got a cross wind measuring 240 knots. But the atmosphere is so thin that it’s barely buffeting the craft. There are some wispy clouds as well. I’m having the computer analyze their composition right now."

"Don’t do too much at once, Captain. Let’s get this baby down."

Gordon/Ray smiled. "Right. T-minus... 45 seconds to touchdown. Vector at z-minus 28.5 degrees and holding. Retrothrusters... on line and activated. Speed of descent now 70 knots and slowing."

Now there was a brief silence, while Gordon's arms emulated Ray's own movements. "Interesting. Europa’s got its own Van Allen Belt. A magnetic field, folks. That means a liquid planetary core and possible vulcanism. The geologists at home are gonna love that."

"Maybe, Ray. Time to touchdown?"

"T-minus 10 seconds... nine... eight... seven... retrothrusters firing for final approach... four... three... two... one… and... we have touchdown. The Serpent is crawling."

Mass hysteria overtook Mission Control. 50 cigars simultaneously lit up, people were whooping and screaming and patting themselves on the back. Even the normally stoic McNair allowed himself a small upward turn of the lips.

"Mazel tov, Ray. Nice job." McNair accepted a cigar from one of the celebrants, but put it in his pocket for later.

"Roger, Mission Control, it’s great to be here. Engine shutdown complete. Balloon-chute collapsed and rolled. I’m activating the flood lights and raising the sensor pack. You’re gonna have a whole bunch of good stuff in a few hours."

Syll came over to McNair and stood by his side. "Ray, it’s Syll."

A big smile appeared on Gordon’s lips. "Hey, Mrs. Rayburn. My brother seems to dig you quite a bit. I’m about to dig through some ice, myself. That’s a joke, by the way."

Syll deadpanned, "I’m laughing very hard on the inside. What do you see, Ray? What’s the surface like?"

Gordon’s head moved in a circular motion, as he emulated Ray looking out the observation windows. "The sky is pretty dark, even with Jupiter in full phase. The atmosphere is about .003% as thick as Earth’s, composed mostly of hydrogen and noble gases. There are some shades of pink and blue, maybe a smattering of greens. Kind of like an East Coast sunset. Five... six... seven moons are visible to the naked eye, including Io on the south-western horizon. It’s in its waxing crescent phase. As for the surface... it’s icy. Lots of deep but healed fractures, and innumerable icebergs and smaller chunks. There are some visible rock outcroppings, but they’re pretty far away. I don’t know yet how deep they extend. We’ll have a better picture in a minute or so."

"Any signs of movement, Ray?" Syll’s curiosity was unquenchable at this moment.

"Other than the wind, not a thing. The ice crust is completely barren. A few tumbleweeds would make it just right. Sorry, Syll, but I’m not John Glenn. No little green men are knocking on the window." Gordon/Ray smiled a little. "But that doesn’t mean they’re not here."

Gordon/Ray’s hands moved briskly over his virtual control grid. "Sensors have now penetrated the ice, and are in the water. Temperature reads...," his eyelids lifted slightly higher, as if in mild surprise, "284.8 degrees Kelvin, with a pressure of 330 millibars."

Syll took detailed notes as she spoke. "Well, that means you’re right about the possible volcanic activity. Something’s heating that water, and it’s hotter than it should be."

"Oceanic composition, 91.1 percent pure water, 4.9 percent various mineral salts. Hmmm... this is odd. We have 3.55 percent heavy water, tritium-based. That’s a little high, isn’t it?"

Pete Wincott came over to join Syll. "Ray, this is Pete. I see what you’re seeing; that’s a heckuva lot more radioactivity than we expected. But it’s also well within safety limits. The Serpent’s shielding will handle it just fine."

"I don’t doubt it, Pete. Your machine is a thing of beauty. OK, we’re getting back a nice monograph of the area. Syll, those rock outcroppings are attached to the ocean floor. Repeat, that’s an affirmative. We’ve got quite a topography happening here. The ocean floor directly below my position is relatively smooth; I’ve got three square miles of sandy flats, which saves us some time. I’ll drill through the ice right here, and forget about the Caterpillar altogether."

Pete nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll guide you through meltdown procedures and get your boat floating."

"Roger, Pete. I’ve got a few more science packets and experiments to set up, so give me a few minutes."

While Gordon mimed Ray’s actions, the press pool started to set up for interviews and commentary from whoever was available. Syll had made up her mind that she wouldn’t speak to the reporters; it wasn’t her job anymore. But her successor was more than up to the challenge. Colleen really knew how to talk, and the whole media corps were enraptured by her presentation. Syll was glad. She knew that Colleen was doing this in part to allow the Mission Control team to concentrate on their job. But she also knew that, deep inside, this was Colleen’s performance for Academy consideration.

Finally, Gordon/Ray turned to Wincott. "We’re all set down here. The drill has been heated to 375 degrees Kelvin. That should be more than enough to drill through thirty meters of ice and slush."

Wincott sat at the Main Control Board, grabbed the small gold cross he wore around his neck, and kissed it gently. Then he said into the microphone, "Angels and ministers of faith, defend us. OK, Ray, let’s begin. Initiate rear jack sequence."

"Initiating." On Europa, the Serpent rose on hind legs, its nose soon reaching a 45 degree angle to the ice.

"Activate the drill."

The nose of the Serpent began to spin, faster and faster, until its motion was a blur. Gordon/Ray’s teeth were gritted. "Drill spin at critical velocity."

Wincott took a deep breath. "Release moorings."

The clamps securing the probe to the landing vehicle unlatched, and the Serpent rocked forward. The drill penetrated the ice like warm butter.

Gordon/Ray's gritted teeth turned to a wide grin. "25 meters... 20 meters... 15 meters... entering the slush layer... 10 meters... 5... splashdown. The Serpent is swimming."
 
 

The probe which Wincott had designed moved with the easy undulation of a sea snake. The ocean water was crystal clear; light from the surface penetrated the ice sheet, giving the seascape a ghostly purple tinge. When the light refracted off the slushy ice and salt crystals, it almost gave the appearance of a star field.

"All systems functioning within established parameters. Activating forward propulsion, setting depth at 60 meters. Well done, Pete."

The Serpent was environmentally friendly, in that it drew Europa’s own water into its engines to use as fuel, and released completely non-toxic and natural by-products. The probe drifted easily and silently down toward the bottom of the ocean, and Ray turned on the many different cameras designed for underwater function. A penetrating but not-too-bright flood light guided his way.

"Syll, you’re gonna love these pictures. Not only is there life down here, there’s a regular zoo. There are tiny, plankton-like bodies congregated in clouds. They’re too small to see much detail, but I’m sure you’ll be able to enlarge and extrapolate the digital feed. I’m swiveling the observation bubble to get an angle change. Hang on."

The Serpent’s head turned to the side. "Wow. There are a whole bunch of different things swimming down here. I wonder why the unmanned probe didn’t pick any of this up."

Ray manipulated his cameras, switching focal lengths and positions, to make as detailed a record for posterity as was possible.

"I can’t really tell of these are ‘fish’ in the classic sense. But they are certainly very similar. Chalk one up for the school of parallel evolution. Very symmetrical body structures. I don’t see scales, but I don’t see hair, either. They are mostly pale or white, but some have rather fantastic splotches of color, perhaps for species identification. I’m not close enough to see any sensory organs, at least with the naked eye. They’ve also got fin-shaped limbs, although some have more than just one pair. None of them are showing any interest in the Serpent. Weird, huh? It’s as if I wasn’t even here."

Syll was nearly bursting with anticipation. The films, when broadcast, would completely alter or discredit tenets and philosophies dating back to time immemorial. And Ray had become quite a biologist, with Dr. MacGregor’s help, over the last three years. His commentary was invaluable. "What about flora, Ray? Is there anything resembling plant life that you can see?"

"We’ve got several different organisms apparently rooted into the sea bed. They look almost like grasses, but I can’t really tell if they could be classified as plants. I just can’t see enough sunlight making it down... uh-oh."

That was the one word no one involved in this mission wanted to hear. It had too many ominous overtones. McNair took back the mic. "What is it, Ray? What do you see?"

"Nothing yet. I have a sonar contact with three distinct signals, on an intercept course. They’re not moving too fast, but if they show up on sonar they have to be large."

McNair sat closed-mouthed. for a moment, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. Then he asked, "Are they artificial or natural?"

There was a brief lull. Then, "No way to tell at this point, they’re too far away. However, for what it’s worth, they’re holding a lateral line."

McNair got up and started to pace, but his face betrayed no emotion. "OK... OK... Ray, is there anywhere nearby where you could hide, or at least make yourself less conspicuous?"

"That’s a negative. It’s like a big mesa down here. Those rock outcroppings are several kilometers away, and who knows what I’ll run into or whose attention I’ll draw on my way there? I could conceiveably take the Serpent down into that grass bed below me, some of it is pretty high. But I don’t want to risk harming or contaminating any organisms."

McNair kept walking back and forth. "Suggestions?"

"Yeah. I’m gonna stay right here until the welcoming committee arrives. They don’t appear to be in a big hurry; they may not even be aware of me. And if necessary, I’ll just blast out of here, get back on the ice, and leave town."

Syll sat down in McNair’s chair. "Ray, I don’t like this. I think you should get out of there now, while there’s still time."

Gordon/Ray shook his head. "No way. This is what we came here for. We’re sticking around, no matter what. Don’t worry. If it gets too dangerous, we’ll disengage ansible contact, and head for the hills."

Syll didn't seem satisfied, but there was little she could do in the way of changing Ray’s mind. Apparently, Gordon also agreed with his clone’s assessment. The word "we" was appearing more and more in his speech patterns; it was becoming a bit confusing.

The waiting was agonizing for everyone. Ray gave continual progress reports, but they amounted to little more than distance readings. Gordon/Ray sounded completely calm, but Syll was nervous. She moved over to MacGregor.

"Doctor, how’s my husband?"

MacGregor put a hand on her shoulder. "He’s doing fine, Syll. Pulse is at 85, respiration is completely normal, and his EEG is well within the norm for ansible mode. He’s a cool customer."

"What if something goes wrong on Europa?"

MacGregor motioned for Syll to be seated, then joined her. "Look, Syll, you’re a scientist. You know how hard we worked on making sure that both Gordon and Ray have effective defenses. Gordon has been an excellent student. If there’s a danger, he’ll know how to handle it."

Syll shook her head slowly. "But I also know that nothing is absolute. Something could go wrong, and maybe there won’t be time...".

MacGregor interrupted her. "Anything could happen. You’re right about that. But that’s part of the risk of being an astronaut. That is what makes them a breed apart- knowing that some catastrophe could strike without warning, and forging ahead nonetheless. You just have to hope that things work out for the best. I know that they will."

Syll and MacGregor were interrupted by Gordon/Ray’s voice. "Visual contact, bearing 280 meters south-east and closing. Three large objects, moving at approximately 10 kilometers per hour. They’re still too far to discern any detail... give us ten seconds."

The silence was deafening in Mission Control. Syll could hear her heart racing I.ike a rabbit. Then, "O.K., kids. We have three large, and we do mean large, living creatures. Definitely organic. They are slowing down... they have come to a complete stop approximately 20 meters from the craft."

"Any signs of hostility?", McNair barked.

"That’s a big negative. They’re just floating out there. They look like... oh, what the hell do you call those things that live in the Floridia canals?"

"Manatees," McNair replied.

"Right. Manatees. Except these creatures are 35-45 meters long. They have a pinkish-grey skin, with a light colored fur. We can’t tell if the fur has any sensory function. Definite head-body-taiil structure. What look to be two giant eyes, almost completely black. Gills on either side, right at the juncture of the head and torso. They have two frontal limbs, shaped like fins, except... wow."

"What is it?", Syll asked. "What do you see?"

"Syll, the creatures are unfolding their fins. In unison. The fin is actually a full-fledged limb, folded at the elbow to provide better hydrodynamics. The newly-revealed section looks remarkably humanoid. Just like a forearm, wrist, and hand. The hand has several digits, but we can’t see close enough to determine how many, or if any are opposable."

Syll was stunned into silence. McNair had to shake her to get her attention. When she regained her wits, she asked, "What are the creatures doing?"

A moment’s pause. Then, "They look to be tipping over, upside-down. Their heads are now facing toward the ocean floor, the tail fin almost fully vertical. Their arms are extended wide."

McNair rubbed a sweaty palm against his sweaty, dark-skinned forehead. "Do you think it's a greeting?"

Wincott hit some controls on his consul, switched to automatic, then stood to join the others. Westerby made sure that the entire room was locked and secured.

Gordon/Ray replied, "Don’t know what it is. It could be a warning, or a mating ritual, for all we know. But we can tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to respond in kind."

"All right," McNair replied. "You’re in charge over there. Proceed with extreme caution."

"That’s a roger, Houston." On Europa, Ray tilted the Serpent to match the position of the creatures. Then he extended the probels mechanical arms in a manner as similar as was possible.

"What’s happening?", Syll whispered. "Are they reacting?"

"Affirmative, the creatures are moving. They are tilting back into a horizontal plane. Now they’re spreading out in a Y-formation ... what the hell is this? Houston, we have a condition red. Repeat, we have a condition red."
 
 

The entire Mission Control Staff froze in place, as if time itself had stopped. Suddenly, the room exploded with activity. Phones started ringing, security teams closed off the entrances, alarms began to sound. A call was made to the President. It was a feeding frenzy for the press corps, who were none-too-gently ushered outside the building. A rooftop hypersonic modulator put out a frequency burst that disrupted all cellular phone communications for five square miles, to ensure NASA’s security.

McNair slid into the chair at his control station and booted up the red alert program. The sweat disappeared from his forehead. Having been at the helm of so many condition red situations in his career, this was old hat for him, even natural. Far more natural than having to decide how to make contact with an alien species.

"All right, Ray, we’re all set down here. What’s your situation? Are the creatures moving to attack?"

Gordon/Ray shook his head furiously. "Negative, that’s a big negative. The creatures are not engaging in any hostile activity. They are circling the craft, moving in some kind of pattern suggesting a form of communication. We have a malfunction on board. Repeat, there is a problem with the Serpent."

Syll almost fell down from shock. Colleen Westerby took her by the arm and sat her down in a chair. McNair snapped, "Westerby, get her out of here!"

"No!", Syll screamed. She was nearly purple with fear. "I’m not leaving! Gordon, start separating now! Do you hear me?"

Gordon/Ray turned and looked right at Syll. "No, Syll. We’re hanging on until the last possible second. We’ve got to do all we can. Just calm yourself down." Then he returned to his status report. "Sensors are showing a breakdown in the Serpent’s atmospheric containment seals. Something is eating them away... maybe a corrosive from the ocean that we didn’t pick up. The computer is tracing the source. It estimates 7 minutes until containment is compromised, and the Serpent implodes."

"Seven minutes?!?" McNair reeled like held been slugged in the jaw. "Wincott, find out what’s causing that. Ray, get in your environment suit immediately, and begin emergency checklist countdown for return to the surface."

Wincott’s fingers were already dancing on his panel; apparently he’d anticipated McNair’s request.

Gordon/Ray cleared his throat. "Greg, we’ve got another problem. A bigger problem. The interior of this ship is not sterile. There are bacteria, maybe some viruses... and of course, myself. If the containment seal is breached, any and all potentially biohazardous materials inside will escape into the Europan ecosystem upon implosion. Every living thing on the whole planet could conceivably be wiped out."

"Ray, it’s time to start caring about yourself. There may still be a way to fix this."

"No, Greg, there’s not enough time. We wouldn’t know where to start." Gordon/Ray’s voice was calm, almost serene. "We’re the intruder here. It’s not our right, it’s not our place. We have a responsibility. And... I'm just one man."

"No, Gordon! You’re two men!" Syll hopped back out of the chair. "Break ansible contact now! Do you hear me? Now!"

"Time to loss of containment- 5 minutes, 30 seconds. Initiating self-destruct sequence. Engines are powering up, and will reach full charge in 90 seconds. We’re going to take the Serpent up and out of the atmosphere. Jettisoning the sensor package; it should continue to function for several months."

Silence swept the control room. Tears ran down Syll’s face. Gordon/Ray smiled, and Ray spoke for himself. "Don’t cry for me, this was part of my contract. I’m just glad I had the chance to be here with all of you." His smile disappeared abruptly. "The computer has located the source of the malfunction. There are small capsules attached to the seals on the inside of the air-lock hatch, landing gear struts and engine vents. They contain an engineered bacterium which is eating away at the polycellulose component of the seal. Greg... this was sabotage."

Greg pounded his fist into the wall. "Damn! They hit every vulnerable point on the craft." He closed his eyes for two seconds, then opened them wide. "It has to be an inside job."

Gordon/Ray continued. "95 seconds to lift-off. We’re spinning the Serpent as fast as we can, with the mechanical arms extended. Good... the Europans are swimmming off... I think we scared them away. I hope they can forgive us. The capsule was dissolved by the radiation from the heavy water in the Europan ocean. It was activated by a small amount of free-radical tritium, specifically."

Again, there was dead silence. Then Gordon/Ray broke it. "Wincott."

Greg turned to Wincott's station, but the chief engineer was gone. His data base had been wiped clean. McNair pointed to the Chief of Base Security. "Bring him to me. Alive, if possible."

Four guards, weapons drawn, ran from the room in search of their quarry.

McNair slumped back into his chair, and rubbed his closed eyes with his fingers. Then he took the mic again. "O.K., Gordon and Ray. It’s time to break ansible contact. You know the drill, so let’s get to it."

"That’s a negative. We’re staying together until we lift off. Sixty seconds to full engine charge. We’re taking the ship to the surface. Thrusters ahead full."

The Serpent charged up and ahead. Gordon/Ray brought the craft right back through the hole they had drilled; it went airborne for a brief moment, then came down hard on the ice. It didn’t even crack.

"Forty seconds to full charge. Activating caterpillar. Got to put some room between us and them."

The caterpillar propulsion system went on-line; the Serpent began to leave tracks.

"Twenty seconds to full charge. Distance from entry point... 500 meters. Deactivating caterpillar... full stop. Activating front jack, setting at 70 degree angle of ascent, clearing all moorings. T-minus 10 seconds... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... one... ignition."

The Serpent blasted from the surface, leaving a melted crater in its wake. Ray, although pressed back into his chair, managed to look at the rear viewer, and saw the two metal skeletons he had left behind- the jack he had used to enter the ice, and the one he had used to leave the planet. He wondered what the Europans would do with them.

"Houston, we have liftoff. T-plus 30 seconds. Time to loss of containment... 3 minutes 30 seconds. We’ll be clear of the atmosphere in about another minute."

The Security Chief came running back in to the control room, straight to McNair. He handed him a bloody piece of paper. Gordon/Ray saw the exchange. "Did you get him, Greg?"

"No. He couldn’t get out of the building once you declared the Condition Red. All of the exits automatically locked. He went up to the roof and took a dive. Two hundred feet."

Gordon/Ray closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then, "Greg, what’s the note say?"

Greg looked at the crumpled paper. "Guys, I really think it’s time for you two to break contact."

Syll broke in, tears streaming down her burning cheeks. "Please do as he says, for God’s sake. Ray, I don’t want to lose Gordon. Please...". She choked down a sob.

"Read the note, Greg. We have a right to know. Two minutes and 30 seconds."

Greg shook his head, then opened the paper.

"It’s pretty short. It’s written on a piece of Terragen Stationery. It says, ‘I am Jesus, not Judas. I died for your sins. This world is the Lord’s, this and none other. That which He did not create is the work of Satan and must be destroyed, just as God destroyed Sodom. I am His messenger. I am His Hand. Did you think you were greater than the Almighty? Let the death of your clone abomination serve as a reminder of our rightful place in the universe. Ask Him for forgiveness, that we might one day meet again in the Kingdom of Heaven. Remember John 3:16.’ The letter is signed ‘Brother Peter’ of ‘God’s Children.’"

No one spoke. McNair placed the paper down on the counter, and wiped his hand on his slacks, as if trying to clean it off. Gordon/Ray just smiled and shook his head. Then he sighed deeply, and relaxed in his chair.

"Well, Greg, it appears that our background checks need a background check. You’d better do some thorough research, and make sure we don’t have any more terrorist moles undermining the program. And check to see if Terragen was involved in this. There could be a revenge factor here."

"Will do. Will do." McNair looked and sounded like a zombie.

"Ninety seconds to loss of containment. Don’t blame yourselves. There’s no way you could have known about Wincott. I guess there’s something to be said about patience being a virtue. He worked for NASA for over 20 years. I wonder how long he’d been planning something like this."

Gordon/Ray took off his VR visor, and looked at Syll. One small tear ran down his face, tracing the path of the lines that formed when he grinned. The voice was solely Ray’s. "I’ll give you your husband back, now. Thank you for being there for Gordon. He’ll never really know how lucky he is."

Syll couldn’t speak; she was doing everything she could not to break down again in front of him. She just raised a hand and waved goodbye.

MacGregor moved next to McNair. He smiled, nodded, then said very softly, "It’s time, Ray. You must separate from Gordon."

Ray saluted the doctor, a crisp downturn of the wrist. "I’m ready, Doctor."

MacGregor took a hankerchief from his pocket, and wiped his eyes. "Godspeed, my friend. I’ll miss you. You are my finest achievement, and you always will be."

Gordon unstrapped the harness that held him in the simulator chair. He walked up to the doctor, and hugged him. When he let go, he put a hand on MacGregor's shoulder. "Thank you for my life."

He released his grip, and turned to McNair. "Thirty seconds... mark. Disengaging ansible contact." Gordon/Ray put his hand to his temple and closed his eyes tightly. Two seconds later, Gordon opened them.

"Syll?"

Syll ran over to him and held him as tightly as she could. "Thank God! Oh, Thank God." She cried, but her tears were from relief. Over her head, the mission clock registered 10 seconds, and counted down.

Gordon looked at her, and began to cry himself. "Syll, God, I love you. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to him. Oh, Syll...".

The clock reached zero. Gordon tensed up, went rigid, then collapsed in Syll’s arms. Syll screamed; McNair and MacGregor leaped to the fallen astronaut as his wife lowered him gently to the ground.

"Get an emergency medical team in here, now!", MacGregor shouted over the din.

McNair checked Gordon’s pulse, then looked at MacGregor. "Nothing. Starting compressions."

Within 60 seconds the medical team arrived. They took over CPR until the defibrilator could be set up, then tried to shock life back into Gordon’s body. Syll fell back into her chair, and watched. She stopped crying after five minutes. The medical team put Gordon’s lifeless body on a gurney, and transported him to the Base Hospital. MacGregor accompanied Syll in the ambulance, and helped as much as he could. When they reached the operating room, thirty minutes had passed. They opened Gordon’s chest, and MacGregor massaged his heart himself. Everything that could be done was done. The medical team gave up an hour later.

Syll was sitting in the waiting room, staring out the window into the darkness, at nothing. There were no more tears. She propped her head up with her fist, her elbow on the arm of the padded chair.

MacGregor sat heavily beside her. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, old and crinkled, and unwrapped the cellophane. With shaking hands, he managed to rip the top open, then pulled out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. It was only then that he realized that he didn’t have a lighter or matches. He threw the cigarette, and the pack, into the nearby waste basket.

"I’m sorry Syll," he finally managed to say. "We tried everything. From the beginning, we did all that we could. You must know that."

Syll managed a small uplifting of her lips. "I know, Doctor. I know you did. Thank you for trying so hard."

She pulled a light sweater over her shoulders, and suppressed a shiver. "It’s not supposed to be this cold."

MacGregor didn't say a word. Syll buttoned the sweater, then continued. "Doctor, we both lost something tonight. Something very special. I know how you felt about Ray, how proud you were of him."

MacGregor nodded slowly, but still didn't talk. Syll went on. "Some of the things we do, we do too well. Gordon and Ray were meant to live and die together. You and I both knew it, even if we didn't want to admit the truth."

MacGregor broke down and sobbed like a child. "I did a horrible thing. A horrible, horrible thing. And now they’re both gone."

It was Syll's to comfort. It both surprised and pleased her that she had the strength to do it. "No you didn’t. You didn’t do anything horrible. Sometimes we manage to achieve a level higher than perfection. Higher than the skill of our craft or the power of our love should allow. And you know that when we do exceed those bounds, it never lasts very long. It can’t. Because such perfection belongs somewhere else, not here with us."

MacGregor cried until he had nothing more to give. When he had finished, he turned to Syll Rayburn. "How are you able to put his behind you so easily?"

Syll gave a small laugh. Her eyes were damp, but she did not cry. "Oh, Doctor, I’ll never put it behind me. I just have to live, and go on living. But you should remember this; it’s going to get me through every day of the rest of my life. Maybe it will help you. As much as Gordon and Ray needed each other, as inseparable as they were, in their last moments they did separate, to be with the people who meant the most to them. Each one individually. Ray to his creator, and Gordon to his wife. They didn’t just belong to each other. They belonged to us, too."