Her LFD chirped with yet another reminder of her appointment. Con wondered what Zhi would think if he knew that she had a clone waiting for her at Palingenesis or that the crash was the reason she kept these monthly appointments. Death had always been an abstraction, but after the crash, nothing frightened her more. The clone was cowardice, pure and simple, cowardice that had seeped into her groundwater like a toxin.
She would give anything for him to sit up and remind her that she didn’t have to be afraid every minute. He’d once told her that she was the bravest person he’d ever known. Where had that woman gone?
CHAPTER TWO
Only ten in the morning, but already it was on the mean side of ninety. Con fought her way through the scrum of grim-eyed protesters chanting their defiant, rip-cord slogans outside Palingenesis. She’d scheduled the appointment for the day after Christmas hoping it would be quiet for a change, but the protesters were out in force. There had to be three times as many as she’d ever seen before. Maybe they didn’t have anywhere to spend the holidays either.
The protesters were a permanent fixture, rain or shine, huddled beneath the black umbrellas that had become the unofficial symbol of their cause. These were the shock troops of the CoA—the Children of Adam—the single largest anti-cloning organization in the United States. They picketed every Palingenesis clinic in the country, but the headquarters here in Washington, DC, held a particularly intense fascination for them. In their minds, this was the point of origin. The birthplace of human cloning. Where the species had begun to disentangle itself from its humanity.
The umbrellas pulsed excitedly as word filtered through the crowd—the front doors of the clinic had opened. Everyone knew what that meant. A client was arriving. Two white security guards emerged into the sunshine. Both wore ballistic vests and didn’t venture far from the doors as they scanned the crowd for Con.
She didn’t dare call out to them. Not yet anyway. Not until she was much, much closer. She knew exactly how the protesters would respond if they realized that the enemy walked among them. The main entrance was rarely used, so these protests were a frustrating, thankless vigil; they would be eager to put a face to their rage. Con pulled the brim of her cap low over her eyes. Not that anyone was likely to recognize her, but the possibility scared her enough to keep photographs of every outfit she wore to her monthly appointments, careful never to wear the same thing twice.
The crowd surged forward, lifting Con off her feet and knocking the wind out of her. She’d been in enough mosh pits to know better than to fight against the tide. Safer to be carried along, conserving energy, and wait for an opportunity to swim for shore.
“No birth, no soul! No birth, no soul!”
“God doesn’t want you!”
“Pretentious meat!”
With each chant, the crowd took another step forward. By law, protesters were required to remain forty feet back from the clinic doors, but the police, who mostly sided with the demonstration, had better things to do than enforce the legal buffer zone. Normally it didn’t matter. No one who could afford Palingenesis’s services arrived on foot. The clientele was nine-digit wealthy and preferred the private underground parking garage to avoid all the ugliness out front.
Except for Con, of course. Her bank account rarely broke three digits and some days barely two. She couldn’t even afford a new used scooter after her last one had been stolen. So to keep her monthly appointments, she had no choice but to run this gauntlet. Not that running was something she did well anymore, but she still had a little fight left in her. Elbowing her way through a gap, she emerged at the front of the protest. The doors, and the safety of the guards, beckoned only a short distance away.
Con made a break for it, hobbling for the door and pleading with her reconstructed knee not to lock up. Realizing they had been deceived, the demonstrators roared. It was a terrible, prehistoric sound, and Con braced for the hands that would drag her back into the protest’s maw. This was the part she hated most. When all eyes would be on her. Ironic considering how much she loved to be on stage. She had sung for audiences as large as five thousand, yet this crowd, no more than four hundred strong, made her stomach seize up. But then the guards spotted her and rushed forward, each taking an arm, and bundled her inside as the crowd howled for blood.
The soundproof doors sealed closed behind them, silencing the din of the protesters. In the abrupt calm, Con looked questioningly at the guards.
“What’s going on out there?” she asked, trying to catch her breath.