I’ve been thinking...
About Quack Grant?
and his lamebrain
theory. It would explain...
and who’s-its turned
out so disappointingly.
Rockefeller, yes. Samuel is unconfirmed. Maybe you slipped up.
Making your abduction of Rockefeller a monumental blunder.
Except I used the
same skin cells
of our chips?
from our old
We being "absorbed," in theory, whereas...
aspect aside, if
we are a chimera...
snake; who’s the serpent; Lucifer?
... your DNA
lodged someplace other...
than the lining
of your big mouth? Where would you suggest?
certainly does to me.
All that really matters
is that our DNA is dual.
In which case
we’re fraternal not identical twins?
You believed; I’ve always regarded myself as brighter and better-looking.
Not to mention
offensive; I surely know my gender. Naive of you to mistake a
clone for a perfect carbon-copy.
I was young,
certifiably schizoid and latently homosexual.
if you please, to
retract my slur with
respect to your masculinity.
Do whatever you like;
I stand by my analysis.
Stuy-Rem waxes blank, stares as
though oblivious to an unannounced visitor, and simulates a trance in
response to his overwrought guest.
There’s been a
desperate as he is to choke information from his father—any and every bit of
data that might prove helpful in stabilizing Suzette (left at home unattended, locked in a
closet), Rockefeller falters, guilt conspiring with panic to stymie his resolve.
Like a disconnected island—the
same land mass ripped suddenly asunder—offshoot
looks to origin... their differences irreconcilable:
he who feels
compassion for a tragic human guinea pig
he who caused that tragedy
he who wants to
cure Suzette, or salvage what is left of her
he who decided on traits to alter, traits to leave intact
he who first
abused then tried to safeguard Suzette's isolation
he who made a
specimen that society never would condone.
Look at the poor boy.
Tearing himself to shreds, he is.
Worried sick about you-know-who...
Provided she survived.
would be my guess.
Mine would be he’s worried about what punishment lies in store for playing with
Assuming he’s the firebug.
It’s written all over him.
Wants to have his cake.
to eat her, too.
Wants to be forgiven.
to revel in self-righteousness.
you so; here it
How could you
create, concoct those wretched aberrations...
ones you cremated?
... in that
Oh, oh; has America...
shown our lad
God's Moral Luminescence?
Forget religious considerations; let’s focus on ethics.
you speak aloud?
Tit for tat,
Rem. Tit for tat.
That's two tits.
Suzette on ice.
Tell us, if you
would, how the conflagration started. You have our undivided attention.
old self again (even the tics and twitches have come to a halt), Remington views his
clone with opprobrious affection, emotions overlapping, overwhelming his
bifurcated consciousness—a battleground dichotomy young Rockefeller
It was an
accident. There was a brief power outage. In my fumbling for the backup I must
have hit a switch. As power came back on, your secret room opened. Was
she—it—ever viable? I mean before you pickled her? I thought it was a child until I
saw how she’d been altered—custom-built, you might say.
To sate some psychopathic
pedophile? What could have possessed you to conceive such...?
talking about the fire, how it started accidentally.
Rockefeller, reining in his outrage, tries to refocus.
purpose, in a sense; I started smashing things. Threw a regular tantrum, if you
want to know the truth. Some chemicals got spilled; they must have been
combustible. Before I knew what happened, the place was an inferno. It was all I
could do to get Suzette...
Ah, yes; your
pet pussycat, your interim fiancée—or has Suzette deposed altogether her knocked-up
Reminded of his urgent situation, Fell bites his tongue; lengthy explanations
and/or condemnations will hardly serve his purpose; Rem’s cooperation must
be won, without delay, to keep Suzette alive.
I need your
help. I realize I’ve ruined...
achieved in twenty-plus years of research. Like
(He snaps his
without a smidgeon of scholarly comprehension. Robotics is your chosen field,
whereas I have spent a lifetime working in flesh and blood. How can you begin to
fathom that which your sanctimonious anger just reduced to ashes?
Ignorance may be bliss, young man, to those of lesser wits; to ours it earns
contempt for wreaking such disaster. Suzette is all that’s left? What a fucking
Like pulling down a visor, Stuy-Rem reconfigures his formerly deadpan
face—as its gargoyle-like contortions fitfully recommence.