“I’m fine, really. I don’t need a drink.”
The bartender set a drink in front of her anyway. Con accepted it with a smile. Better to be appreciative than fight the rising tide of Jasper’s hospitality. In her experience, men hell-bent on displaying their generosity resented having it declined and rarely offered a second time. She had a lot riding on that second time.
She took a sip and noticed the way Jasper was looking at her. Not the appraising once-over that men gave women, cataloging perceived imperfections in the blink of an eye. That she had long since learned to tune out. No, this was something else. Kala, the detective, and now Jasper Benjamin—when they looked at her it was as if they were trying to decide what kind of spider they’d found in their bathroom. And if it was dangerous.
“What?” It came out more defensive than she’d intended.
He flashed a coy, boyish smile at her. The one he probably saved for when he thought he was being charming. It might actually have worked back when he was young, but now—now it looked practiced and stapled on. “Just wondering if I’d be able to tell. You know . . . if I didn’t know.”
“And?” Not knowing why she’d asked since she definitely didn’t want the answer.
He squinted at her. “I think so. Not sure. You look different, but I don’t know that I could say why. So forgive me, but I gotta ask. I thought only rich people could afford clones. You some kind of secret billionaire, slumming down here with the rest of us?”
“Would I be here if I was?” Con asked.
“Got me there. So what’s your secret?”
Con wasn’t about to get into her connection to Abigail Stickling. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Jasper mulled that over, seemingly willing to pretend she had answered his question. “I always thought it would be cool to have a clone, you know? Rumor has it that Palmer Bratt is a clone. Can you imagine?”
Con had heard the same rumor. Palmer Bratt was one of the top-grossing actors in the world. According to the tabloids, she’d been killed accidentally on the set of her movie Planetarium Station during a stunt gone wrong. Her camp had issued a strongly worded denial, and the actor had always declined to take questions on the subject, calling the accusation absurd and malicious. Still, the rumors persisted. Amateur internet sleuths pointed to the abrupt dissolution of her two-year marriage to singer Delonte Anders, and certain minuscule changes to a scar on Palmer Bratt’s throat that had been there since childhood. It was hard to say whether the mystery had increased or decreased her popularity.
There had been all kinds of films on the subject of human cloning, mostly horror, but not all. Plus television, music, books. Alan Delaney’s memoir of his transcendent experience as a clone had been a bestseller in more than thirty countries. The entire concept of human cloning had provoked a massive reaction as the culture tried to work out its complex and often conflicting range of opinions. They loved cloning and hated it. Feared it, objected to it on a variety of grounds, yet also envied it and felt left behind.
Speculating which celebrities were secretly clones had become its own cottage industry. Palingenesis itself remained resolutely silent on the subject, neither confirming nor denying the identities of its clientele. It was speculated that a few desperate celebrities had taken advantage of Palingenesis’s strict nondisclosure policy to leak fake stories that they themselves were clones, hoping that the whiff of controversy might revive their flagging careers. In politics, it was a far dirtier game. Smearing opponents as clones was a tried-and-true method of discrediting rivals. Multiple conspiracy theories argued that despite the scandal in ’33, the US government still sponsored a classified clone program for key White House personnel. All the prospective candidates, from both parties, in the upcoming presidential election had signed pledges not to accept clone backups should they win in November.
The opening act came on stage and launched into their first number. They were surprisingly good, and the audience packed in tight and heads began to bob appreciatively.
“How’s the drink?” Jasper asked, almost yelling in Con’s ear to be heard.
“It’s good,” Con said, taking another small sip to placate him, and discovered it really was. But to be safe, she made herself stop there. Breakfast had been her only meal today—only meal ever, technically—and this body had never experienced alcohol before. She probably had the tolerance of a wet kitten.
Jasper said, “Anyway, can’t tell you how bummed out I was when that Weathervane show fell apart. Been trying a long time to get you back here, and we were this close. Man, it was so good to finally see you play again. Really play, I mean.”