All that fuss and red tape, just to tell me I am a what? a SHIP WIPE?!?! At least now I know "what I am" . . . All the difficulties and disorientation were "normal" for "a clone of my age."
I'm a WHAT?!
Did I ask to be cloned? Where am I?!?! If I am my clone, then where am I?
What happened to ME?
Nobody seems to care that this is a very serious question. Where did I come from? Why can't I remember, except dreams and flashbacks, which they call an ailment or a syndrome, ANY of who I was, whom I knew, where I worked, where I've been, what I've done . . . ? Who am I now?
Am I me or am I someone else who looks like me?
Who cares, right?
When I say that, they say it's "just my genotype talking." Say WHAT?
Whose fault are all these mistakes I keep making at my job? I don't think I am that much of a klutz. I don't remember being that much of a klutz, but then they ask what exactly it is that I do remember, and here we go again with the clone and the genotype . . . Who hires these people? Am I paying them somehow?
I get attacked by a thief, who even CALLS himself a thief, publicly, and when I get out of sick bay from that, I try to catch him and recover my money, . . . so they throw me in the brig.
Say WHAT? Oh, right, here we go again with the genotype thing. Do any of these people listen to themselves? Wait, maybe that's part of the problem.
Thank God for the few who have come to my aid. People I had never met sent me tools and weapons and helped me get on my feet, financially. One kind fellow sent me a knife to help me protect myself, and somehow I can't figure out how to make this pocketknife work, so another decent chap dropped off a shotgun for me at an excellent price, (but though it seems familiar enough and handy enough, I seem to be far too clumsy to make any real use of it). One helped me find a source of income I didn't know I had, and another even offered to set up financing for major expenses . . .
But these government people who are "here to serve" . . . do you think they could even do as much as they are PAID to do?! No, so much more productive to sit around pointing fingers, classifying people, holding them in derision for things beyond their control . . .
One of them asked me pointedly where the Prometheans were meeting and insisted I was one.
What's a Promethean? Anything to do with Prometheus? Wasn't that a ship class? Weird, another funny memory. "Clone syndrome," they said. Sure, that's the answer to everything.
What DO they do in those offices anyway?
And me? Ship wipe? I am really in the wrong job. They say I can change careers, but then what? 3 credits per "successful completion" of a task . . . Well I guess they pay more once you have given them enough sweat equity. My first day's pay was barely enough to cover the rent on this "fabulous hotel room" . . . What a miserable, wretched sty, and the never-silent screens of know-it-alls venting their hot air . . . At least my "bed" still slides out of that sorry excuse for a wall, though I'm not sure what that was I chased off of it. I hope it doesn't eat clones. Can't believe I'm . . . I just can't say it.
Ah, but who cares, right?
And the food? Yeah, yeah, I know, genotype, right?
You wait. I'm working out. I'll show you clowns a "genotype."