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shot who has yet to be born in some colony deep in the asshole of the universe.
    “One lifetime wasn’t enough,” the clone—Phae—continues. “And so Blasius was provided with my frozen embryo in a tub. At least that’s what he told me. He died ten years ago.”
    “Since then you’ve been completely alone?”
    He nods with a frown. “Why is this bothering you, Prince? Is it wrong?”
    I put my hand on his cheek. He startles a little when my palm meets his skin. “Yes, it’s wrong. But it isn’t your fault.”
    Now I know what happened to him. He’s a clone, but not trained. No one taught him to be a soldier, to be aggressive and to hate, and that’s why his eyes are so kind. It’s not true what they say, that feelings are genetically eliminated from clones. This is probably part of all the bullshit that rich people pretend to believe—the conditions of the Amazon rainforest aren’t so bad, the climate situation is not as dramatic as it seems, clones are inferior beings and genetic engineers make them born without feelings.
    I am outraged, and I feel ashamed for the human race.
    Not that I was any different once. Perhaps my father was right, after all. The suspended animation has freed me of all the shit in my blood, but there was a lot of shit even in my brain.
    I say, “It must have been hard for you.”
    His eyes fill abruptly, like those of a child. “I know that Blasius was just a clone, like me, but I don’t care. I consider him my father.”
    “And you were just a kid of nine, ten, when you remained in this place all alone. My god. Do you hate me for this?”
    He winces. “Hate you? I can’t hate you. It would be like….” He struggles, trying to express a concept with a too limited vocabulary. At the end he sighs and looks up into space through the glass in the ceiling.
    “To hate you would be like hating the stars. You are a mystery too great for me to be able to hate you.”
    Suddenly my heart aches.
     
     
    E VEN THOUGH his skin is warm and his cheeks are slightly flushed, Prince continues to say he’s cold, so I keep holding him. Now that he’s awake, I’m not sure I have the right to communicate with him. I try to remember if Blasius said anything about it, but I don’t think Blasius even considered such an absurd idea. We have always taken for granted that Prince would never even suspect our existence.
    Suddenly terror fills me. Do I seem horrible to him? Probably yes. All that talk about soldier clones makes me suspect I disgust him. I don’t understand this thing about the soldiers, though perhaps it explains why earlier I was cursing Corp for not providing me a weapon to protect Prince. Many of the things Prince has just said are beyond my comprehension. But it doesn’t matter. I’m happy just to talk to him.
    Anyway, Prince doesn’t behave as if I disgust him. Instead, he continues rubbing against me and touching me, and I’m not prepared for this. Damn, I wasn’t prepared for anything that’s going on. My length aches in my pants. What if Prince realizes this? I’ll die of shame.
    He doesn’t disgust me, that’s for sure. He’s so fragile, vulnerable, that my chest hurts in concern with every breath. I can’t take my eyes off his delicate skin, and his lips seem so soft that something inside me melts just looking at them. I am reminded of one of the mysterious words Blasius used, petals, and I know Prince’s lips are petals, although I don’t know what petals are. The silk of his hair enchants me. He even has something silk-like on the line of his chin, thin light hairs, and I shock myself by fantasizing about stroking my lips against it.
    And then his eyes, huge and dark green, with those pale strands sailing in them. Prince’s eyes are so hypnotic I could drown in them, and when he returns my gaze, my stomach turns upside down, and I feel like I’m drifting in zero gravity.
    To me, he’s mysterious. I don’t understand his actions or his words any more than