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So smooth, no traumas of youth or ravages of age. Undamaged and pristine as a marble goddess. Death Angel this is your true aspect made real.
On the second day, she moaned. He extended the water spigot to her again and she sucked slowly at it, then stopped.
“Eat,” she muttered. Virgil ripped open a package of bulk protein and held it to her lips.
Yes eat.
“Eat,” he said aloud. Her lips parted and he held the food closer. She opened her mouth wider and took a small bite, swallowing it without chewing. He continued to feed her, floating close to her, feeling the warmth from her skin. When she finished the bar, he let her wash it down with water.
He just as lovingly cleaned her whenever she soiled herself.
On the third day, after feeding her and cleaning up afterward, he sat in his corner and gazed down on her.
Death Angel don’t just lie there. “Eat” and “Drink” are all you’ve said. Don’t sleep forever. I have no magic kiss.
“Wake up, Death Angel,” he softly said.
Her eyes opened instantly and she gasped, shutting her sensitive eyes against the low lighting. She lay there, breathing rapidly.
“Virgil?” she asked through trembling lips.
“Complete integration,” the computer said.
Virgil straightened out and looked at her. “Up here,” he whispered.
Through half-closed lids she looked above her. He smiled- half in awe, half in joy. Then she screamed.
“No!” Her arms thrashed about. She strained to kick. Suspended in the middle of the room, she had nothing to flail against and merely twisted about until her energy depleted. She began to sob and curled into a ball.
“Delia. You’re alive and safe-”
“I am not Delia.”
No, not you too. Don’t start. Don’t.
“You are Delia. Delia Trine.” What sort of deal you trying with Nightsheet? “I know. I carried you in. I took you apart. I built you again and I put you back in. You’re Delia.”
“I’m not Delia!” Her teeth clenched as she glared at him, animalistic rage and terror in her gaze. “Delia’s dead. I saw it happen. I felt it. Then I saw you tear me apart in that-thing- and now I’m here.”
“That’s why you’re Delia.” He moved closer to her, ducked to avoid the swing of a fist, and stayed back.
“You don’t understand. I’m not alone. This isn’t mine. This is”-she made a sound like bubbles churning. Her hair swirled around her as she spoke. “It belongs to her. I am she. Not Delia.”
“Whose body? I cloned you. This is you at twenty-four, untouched by all the ills.” Flesh is art, too. I made you what I want. “I want Delia!”
“She’s gone. Dead.” She threw her arms about, then pulled into a ball and whimpered, “You don’t understand, you don’t understand.”
“Apparently,” the computer interjected, “the clone developed a rudimentary consciousness in those years its brain was growing normally. The original Delia’s memory seems to be at odds with the clone’s partial self-awareness. And not as neatly compartmentalized as you and Jord.”
She spoke without moving, though her grip loosened on her legs. “Jord? He’s dead, too. We’re both dead. It’s just you and”- she made the gurgling sound again. “I hate you for what you did. I’ve got words for what I feel, now. Now that Delia’s given them to me. I was warm and com-comfortable for so long and you came and now I hurt-hunger, and now I’m thirsty. Sometimes I’m cold. And I’m dry.” She unraveled her arms and legs and stared at him.
Hate burns in her eyes like acid. I’m doing it all wrong.
He reached out for her. “I’ll comfort you, Delia. Please.”
She snarled and grabbed at his hands. With a spasmodic jerk, she propelled past him toward the hatch and yanked it open. Her clumsy movements slowed her enough for Virgil to seize her ankle. She scratched him with her nails, now dry, hard, and sharp.
“Delia!” he shouted, watching her fly away from him. The welts on his cheek burned like streaks of flame. He followed her down a curving corridor and trapped her near an axial tube. Her hair rippled and fluttered in the wind of her speed. He grabbed it and yanked.
“Killer!” she cried, turning about. They drifted together until they touched a bulkhead. She kicked off and drove her head into his stomach.
“Why, Delia?” he asked through lost breath.
“I’m not Delia!” She pounded against his chest. “Delia wants to die and I want to live. This is my body, my mind that she’s in.” Taking a double fistful of hair, she wrapped the ebon rope around his throat and snapped it tight.
Death Angel I brought you back so you could send me away? Then send me. I tried to do right and it’s wrong. Wrong. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out as his body went suddenly tense, then limp. Teeth clenched and eyes glazed, he stared at some point far beyond her. She loosened the loop of hair from his neck. He floated stiff and still.
She wondered if she had actually killed him. Part of her strove to laugh and something deeper yearned to weep. She wanted to dance, she wanted to die. So she merely observed, silently.
Suddenly his eyes swiveled to gaze upon her. He looked mystified, then said, “Dee? Is that you? What happened to- No, wait-I can almost remember what I saw.”
“Jord?” The hank of hair drifted from her grasp.
“Dee-I need you to help me.” He grasped her shoulders and held her. “When I took you from Mercury I didn’t know whether you were alive or… I got you back and Ki
“I’m not Delia!”
“-as if the freezing rejuvenated you. I need your help, though. Now, while I’m in control.”
“Jord-I want to help you, but I’m”-she gagged and jerked her head back-“not Delia!”
“Dee, listen to me.” He shook her gently. “I’m here. I’m inside Ki
Her lips twisted like bending steel. “And when she’s done destroying Ki
Her eyes lost their wild glare for a moment and she said, “She means it, Jord. I can feel it. I don’t want to die now that you’re back!” Her jaws clenched shut, driving her teeth into her tongue. Red stained her mouth.
Baker eased his grip on her. “Dee-what’re you-what’s happened?”
“She’s the clone’s mind, Jord. She hates me the way Virgil must hate you.” The two selves fought for control in a battle that became physical, with knotting muscles, tensing flesh, and visible tugs back and forth.
“I’m going to kill her,” she said. “Kill Delia.”
She broke away from him and pushed off down the tu
“Seal the hatches,” he shouted to a speaker grill in passing.
“Sealed but not locked,” the computer’s voice replied. “She has found weapons cache seven, one level below you.”
He bulleted down an access tube. The sharp sound of a laser hissing twice into flesh reached his ears. When he rounded the corner, he first saw her grimacing smile fade. Her pallor grew even whiter as blood pulsed from the blackened cavities on the insides of her thighs.
“Femoral arteries severed,” the computer noted emotionlessly. “Brain death in six minutes.”
Diving through the field of crimson spheres, Baker seized her, jammed his thumbs into the laserblasted arteries to stop the bleeding, and rushed her back to the medical bay. With a grunt, he threw her into the boxdoc and slammed down the lid. A pair of extensions reached toward the burn holes, pulled at the flaps of skin, then withdrew.