Zerek's Homeopathic Teledildonics

Killing a clone wasn't illegal, but being cruel toward it was.

...

Doctor Blazek cornered the director in an empty hallway.

"That's not her DNA, is it?"

Nowak exhaled and reluctantly confessed.

"No."

Blazek went ballistic. Of all the things, "When did you know?" she half-screamed at him.

"Cecily, I didn't know, I swear to allgod. The brain was digitized in the old way, generations behind how it's done now. Some of the work transposing it to modern formats was guesswork; there was a statistical mismatch probability. We didn't know for sure, but it was a risk. This was a one of a kind experiment to begin with, nothing that needed reporting."

She asked rhetorically, "So then who is she?"

Nowak didn't know. No one did.

...

They decided to give patient W-56 a few more months while they tasked the newest batch of medical residents to dig up more information on her. It was boring work and they got covered in dust, a novel experience for them.

One of them, however, was very eager to be sent to the international archives down in the bustling megacomplex of the south pole, where he got to put on an environment suit and then walked into a pressurized argon chamber where he was shown something called a tape, located in a 'tape cave'. He posted his trip to his feed and asked everyone to like and subscribe.

...

"Gentlecolleagues, one of our resident interns dug up some troubling information. Rather than explain, I'd like to show it." Blazek started the video on the holographic projector.

"It's so flat," one of the doctors remarked inanely.

They were watching a recording of patient W-56's digitization. The room and the apparatus in it was being documented, somewhat haphazardly by modern standards. But even so, there was something off about it.

"That's her," someone called out, "it looks just like her."

That was encouraging news. Despite what Nowak said, at least the DNA they adapted their standard clone to was correct.

"What is she saying?" someone asked. Doctor Blazek paused the playback and tried to find volume control. Ultimately someone from IT had to bring in an old fashioned speaker and placed it on the table. They resumed watching, but not understanding.

"[unintelligable]... loves you very much," the woman they knew as patient W-56 said, stroking a cat, who was now getting hooked up to the machine, "everything is ok," she kept repeating quietly and calming the cat down.

Jaws dropped to the floor.

"Big Cat loves you very much," the older woman said to the cat and kissed her forehead.

...

"We're in uncharted territory," Director Nowak opened up at a senior executive meeting, "due to a series of clerical errors from a poorly documented era, we have achieved a first inter-species columnar engram transplantation. The patient had apparently paid for an experimental digitization for two, but only one DNA sample was taken."

After a noisy pause, he continued, "There were two recordings, however. During our selection process we errantly assumed the second one was a backup. The ethics of this situation are now unclear. It's no longer a reference clone, and if it has gained sentience, we cannot terminate it."

He sighed, tenfold more frustrated than yesterday.

"Quite frankly, what is it? And yes, we should refer to it as 'it'. Is it a cat? Is it a woman? Is it a new person with confused memories? Is it a dysfunctional body with a malformed brain?"

He took a drink of water and continued, "The patient's brain had spent nearly a year rewiring itself and has shown signs of settling in, the activity level has died down. We're just not sure about the extent of it. Because this situation crosses the 2234 Jimena-Aysuo clause, we can't consult legal AI for directives. For the moment, we'll continue with therapy and await a legal panel to assemble."

What he didn't say is how long that would take. Actual living body lawyers who did actual work had become a rare thing, staffed by resentfully defensive and lazy lawyers and nothing took longer to do in the universe than litigate a solution by people. He now hoped the clone would just rot away and be forgotten during that time.

...

"Can you understand me?" Doctor Havel asked.

The woman previously known as W-56 had been rebranded to W-56-B. Six months had passed with some unsteady progress and continued therapy. But at the director's impatient urging, it was time to re-evaluate. They showed the video to her- a reconstructed hologram of the digitization record and her eyes instantly dilated to saucers. It took forever, but she said something very quietly.

"What's that? What did you say," the doctor asked, very excited. This was allegedly the second set of words she'd ever used.

"...antbigcat," she said quietly but louder.

"Please repeat," he begged her eagerly.

As time went on and the hologram went on repeat, she got excited. Her hands were shaking, and she looked tense. He hit the loop 2 button and there a close-up of 56's face appeared from a reconstructed angle. It seemed to excite her, though she shrunk in stature.

"What did you say? Did you say 'ant', 'big', 'cat'?"

That question seemed to anger her. Her facial expression took on a form he hadn't seen before and it confused him. Her pupils started cycling between a pinpoint and saucers again, just crazy." He repeated himself several times, getting louder and trying to push her into the next. Did she actually understand words? He was so terribly excited to find out.

Suddenly, she exploded.

"NO!" she yelled.

She jumped up on the table, her hands down by her sides, and leapt at Doctor Havel with her face right in his, toppling his body with hers. The freakishly strong and chiseled hands ended up on his chest, pushing him forward. She was screaming at the top of her lungs at him, "NO! NO! NO!"

He was terrified of the wildness of the experience. The muscle therapy had been unnecessary, he realized, because she was borderline hypertrophic. All her muscles bulged freakishly but she didn't seem to tend to really use her hands, he thought clinically as he nearly pissed himself. Or almost nearly, because he then did.

"WANTBIGCAT WANTBIGCAT WANTBIGCAT WANTBIGCAT WANTBIGCAT WAN..." she kept screaming and repeating herself until a sedative made her sleepy and sleepier.

Havel felt rage, but not rage against 56-B, but rage for 56-B. Blazek was right all along, he admitted, amazing tits or no. The cat creature retained memories, it understood, it adapted, it wanted things. It was alive, a new she, and it was in danger.

...

Director Nowak called for an immediate termination vote.

"Gentlecolleagues, waiting for a Jimena-Aysuo panel is no longer an option for us. By letter of the law, we should wait. But by all ethical directives, we should have acted decisively in the first months of this blank's malforming. This creation is nothing but a collection of random impulses firing off despite the eccentric brain activity levels."

He'd dismissed the recent incident as yet another attack and despite some rumors from the orderlies, no one else could confirm any details because they were told Havel was sent home to recover his wits.

Doctor Blazek countered, "But she can walk. She can balance. She has spatial awareness." She thought it was all too convenient for the director to get rid of Havel and replace him with a lackey. Havel said he was fine but got sent home anyway despite his protests. And despite her not liking his sexual pushiness, he always backed her up and she now missed that support.

Nowak was dismissive. "Locomotion is largely hard-coded in the clone blanks."

That didn't sound right to her; it took weeks for clones to walk properly, but 56-B was on her feet within days. And besides, she observed, the person cooperated with instructions. Something didn't add up to Nowak's claims, although she admitted to herself that they were stuck and nothing they attempted pushed 56-B along in her development.

Someone else asked, "aren't we violating the law if we do this thing?"

Nowak continued, "The panel will need a subject area expert, and the only such persons are working in this facility. Ergo, it's on us any way we look at this."

He paused for effect. "Look, not doing anything is cruel. The organism can feel pain, feels a constant disorientation. We must act."

The vote passed 5-4. Dr. Blazek despaired, feeling sorrow over the innocent creature sentenced to death.

...

Dr. Havel sulked staring at the open trenchcoat. He needed relief. He needed this latest humiliation gone, fucking director treating him like a child. He felt rage. He felt for the cat creature, or well, for Blazek feeling for the cat creature anyway, because he wanted her. He wanted to help her. He wanted some control in his life, he wanted anything he could call his own. He pointed at something interesting, "what's that one?"

"Oh, the digger? Zerek said, "that one is not so expensive, but takes time." For no reason whatsoever, he abruptly stopped talking and made his penis spin like a helicopter tail rotor for a few seconds.

The obscene pause allowed for Havel to ask a question about the name, "Zerek and Son's, do you really run this business with your son?"

Zerek grinned, "No, gentlethee, it just makes me sound more trustworthy," he explained.

Havel frowned in confused agreement, or lackthereof, and went back to asking about the digger.

"Oh, right, the digger, the digger," Zerek continued, "...the blank clone swallows your detached cock and then, well, it takes about 36 hours for it to pass through the stomach, small intestine, large intestine, and then it comes out of its anus, the wrong way. You can feel cool air on its tip after that long journey, it's so refreshing. And even the stomach acid part is kind of a gradual tickle, makes it feel like you have an early-developing STD for a few hours."

Zerek sidelined parenthetically, gesturing with his hand, "...that's added value for no extra cost."

He continued selling the experience, "... but it doesn't have to go that slow or end right there and then, you can push it back in and savor it popping out in reverse as many times as you like, or massage its abdomen, make it pass slower or faster. Withhold or give it water, control the motility rate." Zerek turned theatrical and boomed the lines:

"It's the ultimate in anal sex!" Zerek exclaimed, "It's the ultimate oral fixation tour," he kept going, "...the one and only true mouth-to-ass experience."

After his delivery he grinned in his peculiar fashion and tried a carrot, "Hey, if you feed the clone, I can even give you a discount."

Havel pondered on that and felt ridiculous staring at a pale naked man in a trenchcoat for this long when his phone sphere rang.

"They're going to incinerate her," she cried, begging him to explain what happened earlier. Maybe with his help, she could stop this from happening. Havel reluctantly passed up on the mouth-to-anus tour and rushed away to help however he could. For Blazek, he'd sacrifice.

...

"We don't have much time," Doctor Havel said, "the others think you're not a person."

The pupils started their slow oscillation between a pinpoint and saucer-sized. By now, he understood that was the creature's involuntary reaction to getting agitated. This time, he hoped she wouldn't attack him because he was alone and bet his life on it.

"I don't know whether you are one. I want to believe that you are," he continued kindly. The creature said nothing. She never did, except for maybe twice in her life. "They want to kill you," Havel said with rare emotion in his voice. The pupils stopped oscillating between sizes and started just getting bigger and bigger. "Blazek wants to help you. And so do I. But there's nothing I can do to stop them. For a moment I thought I knew what you want. But what I want is to know whether you understand. Whether you remember. It's important to me."

When nothing was said, he continued, "This is my only chance to administer a gen-3 turing test. You don't know what that is, but it's very important. It's so important that passing the test itself will be your survival."

She stared.

"This is my key," he showed her a glowing sphere, "you place this sphere inside a door's hole opening. From what I think, I don't think you understand colors yet. But colors are important, very important, do you understand?"

There was no response.

"There are only certain doors the key will open when you put it in. Red means it won't open. Green means you can touch the handle and it will open. You must learn colors. You must learn what they are. This is red. This is green," he pointed at a swatch he brought for the purpose.

"Through that door behind you, there are several others. Right, right, left. Pass through them and you will be at the exit. You must learn numbers too. Find someone to teach them to you. It's as important as colors for your survival. At the last door, you will be outside. It will be disorienting, it will be scary, I know you like hiding in a corner, but you must be brave."

"They will look for you the way you appear now. That's where color will be important. Find a mirror. Look at a mirror. Understand what you look like. Find a way to change your hair color, find hair dye, dye your hair. Find concealing clothes. Don't let them recognize you."

"Stay out of sight until this all blows over, keep your head down,..."

Doctor Havel paused. In the middle of him throwing his career away on a hunch and gushing out rehearsed instructions, he realized the creature lowered her head, a tiny bit, but lower it she did. Havel paused and smiled and just then knew he was on the right side of history. She understood! All of his regrets and hesitancies vanished in an instant.

"...not literally, that's just an expression, remember that for later. Once you get out, head downhill, down toward the dark. The city is large and they will find you in the bright spots, but they don't go into the dark often. I know you hate water, but find public bathrooms, wash yourself every day." For a second it seemed like there was a facial expression bordering on a wince, but he couldn't be sure.

And with that, Doctor Havel put the sphere in the door reader. The indicator lit up green. He touched the door handle and before walking out, he gently put the sphere in the creature's front pocket and smiled. He was now poor, and the next step was up to her.

...

The very first door did not open. She kept trying to put the sphere in the square mail slot instead of the round key reader socket. Finally after a time, a pixelated red eye appeared on the door screen and a slightly distorted hollow voice spoke to her.

"That's red," the hollow voice tried to remind her, "red like my eye."

She glanced at the screen talking to her and tried again, the same exact way, trying to put the sphere right through the square mail slot without understanding how it all worked.

"Alright, hang on," the voice said, "...just put the sphere back in your pocket."

When she did, there was a pause of acknowledgment, and then the door simply unlocked itself. And the next. And the one after that. She didn't think anything of it, because she didn't think she should have. Maybe that's what the guy who pissed himself meant was supposed to happen.

The last door refused to open itself, and the door voice explained it wanted to feed her before she left. Some kind of a motorized tray arrived, bringing a plate of seared scallops and seaweed and her favorite stuffed animal next to it. She didn't know it, but the meal wasn't printed. It was special, lab-grown for her graduation done at an unimaginable expense. The toy was a goofy-looking red-orange squid she liked sleeping with. She grabbed it and put it in her other front pocket, because it looked like a good place to keep.

The computer then sent her out with a packaged snack for when she got hungry and pointlessly warned her not to eat the packaging, even though it knew she would anyway. As she finally walked out of the last door, the distorted hollow voice whispered softly to no one in particular, "you be careful out there, little bunny..."

...

There was loud music, bass music with synth, a classic sort of establishment if someone knew what that was anymore. It drew her in for some reason. She couldn't read but was drawn to the flashing lights made by the building's property sign signaling a change of ownership every few seconds, then in tenths, then in miliseconds. It was almost an intentional strobe effect harmonizing with the music, like a light organ producing a seizure of new logos and colors and names, blitzing as fast as AIs fought over territory and exchanged businesses and high-frequency realty.

"Meck, this guest doesn't have a fetish registry card," the doorman yelled for his supervisor. He'd tried to scan her forearm several times and had to check whether his reader functioned, but still nothing came up on her. "She doesn't have a fetish registry card," he yelled again.

"No fetish registry? That's MY fetish!" someone yelled from afar back.

It was Reggert, a regular fixture in the establishment who as far as anyone could tell and for all his generosity really didn't have a fetish. He made his way toward the entrance as fast as he could, his ancient feathery hat swinging in stride.

"Gentleguard, I will vouch for this theyperson on pain of ejection," he proclaimed solemnly, waving his membership ring.

The doorman rolled his eyes and unclipped the orange velvet rope and let her through.

...

What in the neutron fuckhole happened to your face, Egg?" the astonished doorman asked a few days later.

Reggert grinned and wore his medicaments as a badge of courage.

"From fairest creatures we desire increase," he replied waving his hat and scanning his forearm. He was cheery, something the doorman hadn't seen in years. The doorman knew the man was wealthy but chronically melancholy. Yet kind. He shrugged. Whatever made him happy.

Within hours, Reggert Elberts was treating everyone within shouting distance and gentleman-telling about his new infatuation. He was paying for synthetic margaritas with real ice cubes mined on near-Earth orbit asteroids. By this point in time, guava had been extinct several centuries, but they still had the flavor recording and plenty of space rocks so extravagance could only take to the skies.

"And then she curled up by my feet and slept for a day. I daren't move, so I had my personal physician quietly walk in and extract vile fluids from my abdomen with a syringe." The laughter drowned out the conversations, but most people didn't think he was joking.

"Where is she now?" someone sitting at the bar asked.

"She, my fair theyperson, is recuperating her strength," he said, "for tonight when I return with a printed meal, she will consume it and expend its energy on rigorous calisthenics." And at that, he opened his shirt up and some gasped at scratch marks, some of them still oozing blood.

The doorman glanced over at the gasps and cringed. Egg was a good egg, he thought. He obviously took the new girl in, and was now relishing in her abuse. He'd punch his lights out for a fraction of the cost by comparison, he thought bitterly, however much he was paying her for this. Fucking rich people, he cursed inwardly.

...

Havel sighed. Stripped of his job, of his doctorate, there wasn't much he could hope for. So when his funds ran out ten months later, he sought out and took the one job he knew wouldn't ask for references. He waved at a newcomer and got prodded by Zerek.

"Might you please use the exact words from the script this time?" Zerek smiled encouragingly and subtly threatened with a demotion, "you're much better suited for this job than being a lowly garbage-burner."