Clone City

There were only two ways to enter the banquet hall. Directors had to descend one of three stairways from an upper floor, citizens by one of five entrances on the Midround.

The first to appear were a group of clones who had been selected from a total of six hundred thousand. They had been told to arrive first. They wore a smarter version of their usual uniformed attire – navy blue, high-necked tunics of a light cotton material with the insignia of Joypolis emblazoned on a breast pocket. It was never made clear to them whether they had been invited as helpers or guests. Most of them did not mind the ambiguity. They deemed it a privilege to be there in whatever capacity. Media did little to clarify the situation by only hinting at recognition of hard work.

Soon, groups of citizens began to arrive. Most were childless couples, but there were also some family groups. On entering, the youngest would rush off to join friends of a similar age. But the liveliest arrivals were single men and women who looked as if they had come from another party. They were dressed in the latest fashions and gazed with rapturous delight at the sumptuous décor.

Row upon row of scintillating chandeliers hung from an ornate ceiling upon which were embossed the heroes and heroines of Joypolis. Paintings that were considered masterpieces of the various schools of art that had flourished in the city decorated the walls of the rotunda. In the alcoves between the paintings, there stood statues of former chairmen, scientists, artists, engineers, and inventors. At the centre of the rotunda stood the buffet stands – a pagoda for Chinese cuisine, a chateau above the offerings of French cuisine and an elephant housing Indian food.

As guests began to pour into the ballroom, soft music accompanied the familiar voices of the Founders making famous speeches. Soon the rotunda was packed and, as guests began to circulate, lively conversation bubbled up interspersed with bursts of laughter. When the Master of Ceremonies began to call upon well-known figures to make speeches, attention shifted to the stage upon which they stood. Just as the younger guests were beginning to tire of their speeches, the lights of the buffet stands lit up to show they were ready to begin serving.

Against this backdrop, nobles and directors began to descend the staircases as if from Olympus. They all wore the most extravagant costumes and it was impossible to tell from a distance who they were. As the citizens stood about nibbling hors d’oeuvres, a great gasp went up from one quarter. Everyone turned. There, descending the east stairway, was an extraordinary figure. Though no one could be sure, they imagined it was Sovran or even Lara.

Valchek was delighted to have won the first accolade. Wearing a burgundy red quilted garment held together by silver clasps that ran diagonally from his right shoulder down, he tiptoed down the stairway. Dark lace covered his arms and hands and silver bracelets adorned his wrists. A short pleated black cape covered his shoulders and a light helmet with a hologram pattern moving across it concealed his identity.

There were several more gasps of admiration for the daring fashion of nobles and directors, but none eclipsed Valchek’s. He had timed his entrance perfectly: it was neither too early nor too late.

Soon, the floor was cleared of buffet stands and as strains of music were heard and multi-coloured lights swirled across the floor, a great cheer went up. Everyone rushed onto the dance floor. The party had begun.

Through this kaleidoscope of colour, music and wild abandon, Valchek walked seeking an attractive young clone. As he did so, the edge of his helmet began to rub against his neck. He tried to push the top of his cape under it. But it continued to tear at his skin. He decided he would have to go back to his apartment to fix it.

He decided to leave by the Midround rather than be seen climbing the stairs. His ears were still booming from the music as he stepped into an elevator. Reaching the Topround, he lifted the helmet up to stop it rasping against his neck as he walked toward his apartment.

When he closed the door to his apartment, he unclipped the helmet and took hold of it ready to lift it off quickly. He winced when the tender skin beneath stretched and snapped as he pulled it off. He put the helmet down and went to fix a drink. Slopping vermouth into the first glass that came to hand, he gulped it down. As he banged the glass down with a long exhalation, the doorbell chimed. Startled, he went back into the adjoining room to view who it could be. The screen showed the capped and uniformed shoulders of a clone.

Valchek was dumbfounded: what in the Name of the Codes was a clone doing unaccompanied on the Topround! It was expressly forbidden. Only nobles and directors occupied the Topround. Furious, he opened the door and shouted at the clone to explain himself. On seeing his face, he froze. This was no clone. This was a…

Before he was able to finish his thought, a metal hand clamped his throat, lifted him, entered and shook him like a doll. One of his high-heeled shoes flew off and clunked in the corner as his neck snapped.