Ship of Theseus

Here. Have some philosophy.

Lit's annual Geek Event has always been fun for me. Thanks to ChloeTzang for taking it on once again this year. This story comes, distantly, out of Pixy Pfeiffer's universe, but don't worry. It's very much a stand-alone.

I get that others have come up with the idea of women giving birth to clones, but with apologies to the Tleilaxu, mine are hotter.

* * *

"So? I'm good?"

The tech put his scantool away, his smile taking on that detached look Dwayne had seen before over the past few decades. The vacant, airy expression, the one that said, Hell, nothing at all to be concerned about, lying all the while. "Well, you know the deal, Dwayne. You're definitely downsloping, but the scan says the rate's not accelerating outside acceptable margins." He hesitated, blowing out a long breath. "Still around a .03% decrease in cerebellar mass across the major nodes. About the same as last quarter."

Dwayne stayed quiet until the man, nervous, made eye contact. "'Around' .03% decrease?" They stared a moment, and the tech was the one who looked away first. "I know the numbers, doc. What they mean. It's something I've read about just a little. Be precise, please."

The man set his jaw, then chopped out a nod. "Yeah. Okay, Dwayne. So Nodes 5-8 are at .0288%, and 1-4 have a mean percentage of .031." He let the figures sink in, watching Dwayne's eyes to see whether there was any visible filming yet. Always, always evaluating, the techs.

Dwayne relaxed himself, forcing it, his brain doing the math reliably enough once it got going. He had a lot of memories to sort through, but he produced the right answer quickly enough. In about 2.3 seconds, the tech noted. "Doc, that makes over a quarter of a percent mean decrease. Year-to-date over the past, what, five years?" The tech did his own math, shrugging out half a nod. Dwayne fought to keep from laughing at him. "And that's nothing to worry about?"

"Dwayne." The vacant expression was gone now, replaced by the stern one the techs used when they were dealing with smarter patients. "Buddy. You're at way under a third of the total acceptable margin. Way under. Don't freak out." He tossed his comslate onto his desk. "I'm telling you. All good. I don't need to see you again until three months from now." He sniffed. "You know, pending the Neuro results. Assuming no rapid deceleration in the tau proteins or something. But I don't expect anything abnormal. We'll send a message if we need to see you sooner."

"Sooner. Yeah, fuck that," Dwayne nodded; still quarterly, at least. You weren't supposed to let it bother you until you had to go monthly. But then Jeff H was monthly now, the Alpha Jeff, and he didn't really seem to give much of a shit. He still just sat around the bonfire with that little honey Jessly all curled up next to him as the stars came out into the fern-scented darkness. Nights were the best times here, always had been, sitting in a cloud of laughter and coalsmoke while the night crew watched the pens over the head of the ridge, where the limbless swarms of clones slept uneasily. Dwayne sprang off the raised medic table, scratching at his balls. The tech tried not to look down. "Jesus H Buddha, Wayne. Put some clothes on."

"What's the matter, Doc?" Dwayne's arm swung low, clamping hard against the man's crotch as he yelped back a step. Dwayne chuckled. The tech was older, balding, looking about twice Dwayne's age, but Dwayne remembered when he'd been born. He'd looked just like his grandfather; Dwayne remembered that birth, too. "I'll catch you later. Thanks."

"Uh, sure." The tech glared after him, straightening his trousers as Dwayne headed down the hall to the Assignments Office. The numbers, he told himself, were fine; he really did have nothing to worry about, and the thought made him feel strong and powerful enough to produce his usual morning erection.

Yup. Assignments Section was definitely the place to go.

Kethys was on this morning, her fingers fluttering over the key field, her warm orange eyes scrunching in a smile when she caught sight of him. "Why, hello there! If it isn't Dwayne Prime, darkening my door." She leaned sideways, peering around the monitor at the front of his trousers. "Well. Ready already, huh? It's not even breakfast time yet!"

"Oh, come on Keth," he smirked, adjusting himself as he leaned over her counter. "You remember how I am." They shared a quiet, grown-up chuckle, remembering. She'd borne almost a dozen of his children over the years. A most reliable Carrier, was Kethys. He drummed his hands on the surface, gazing frankly down into her cleavage, remembering. His cock gave a lurch. Keth had almost sixty-one Standard Years now, and she was still a fine-looking woman. Jeff P was a lucky man, as he well knew, to have her warming his bed. "Who've you got?"

The old lady frowned at her screen field, nodding. "Dwayney-P, slated this morning for... Juliessa." She nodded, glancing up. "You had her a few months ago, just the once. When she showed up for her orientation."

Dwayne shrugged. He didn't remember her. There'd been a big crop of potential new Carriers coming in then, all of them just past their twentieth birthdays and in the bloom of bright, shining youth, and as he remembered they'd all been fun. He'd probably remember her once he smelled her, Dwayne reflected; he often did, his mind jarred these days by the women in his past. So very many... "Juliessa. Nice name." He held out his hand for the capsule, just like all the other countless capsules over the years: some new soldier's DNA was in there, packed up neatly along with all the developmental accelerators that would let the clone age faster, all of it ready to ride Dwayne's sperm into the happy little haven behind Junessa's belly button... or, wait. Was the name actually Junessa?

Whatever.

"Here you go, Sugar-dick." They laughed again, the memories of so many nights, so many sticky-thighed mornings. "Have fun."

"Yup." He whistled a slow, complex tune as his sunshades dropped into place, the yellow sun already broad and hot overhead. This part of the planet was always nice, with warm lazy days and cool blue nights, which was why they'd stuck the Clone Farm here. The tune was an old one, very old now, and it was likely only three or four other people on the Farm would still remember it... but it had been her favorite song. He sighed, listening without emotion to a sudden scream from the Bloodhouse as he passed, headed for the Boudoir. Her favorite. She'd sung it in the mornings with the rising sun on her hair the color of old copper, so long ago.

There were often screams from the Bloodhouse these days. Dwayne didn't even need to read the bulletins to know that Fleet had started a new offensive. The Clone Farm was always the first to know, the limb orders flooding in. He thought about that, working his lips experimentally; they were still a bit tingly, but the graft seemed to be going well.

One of the anonymous guards was on the Boudoir gate, a failed clone, someone swept from the Farm and brought here to be given a job because his Prime had been killed out there somewhere on the other side of the galaxy. Like, really killed, irreparably, probably vaporized in a ship explosion, and now this oblivious guard was the only remaining scrap of that soldier's stray genes. "Dwayne Prime, number 6280-G," he called out as he reached the gate, just as he had every morning since... well, almost before he could remember. When he couldn't remember his first trip to the Boudoir, well, it would be time for the Doc to send him off to be Eliminated.

"6280-G. Got it, sir." The guard licked his lips, watching Dwayne saunter past. The clones were always curious about life outside the Farm, even the ones who'd been to the Bloodhouse. Not that any of them would ever get much farther, anyway, though their parts and pieces sure might.

Still whistling, Dwayne checked the reference number on the capsule he'd gotten from Keth, his feet turning automatically along the mazy corridors; he could have walked to every part of this building with his eyes gouged out, and he could remember a few times when he'd done exactly that. He giggled to himself, remembering, that one eye transplant an absolute bloody mess. The tech had malfunctioned when he'd tried to install it, and the eyeball had fallen out into the Carrier's face in mid-fuck. She'd freaked out, both her and the medical tech had vanished, and Dwayne still enjoyed telling the story around the coalfire.

He bleeped the capsule at the appointed door, the partition sliding open to reveal the same bed, the same sheets, the same fake windows and cynical lighting, a room exactly like the ones he'd spent hundreds of minutes in, gallons of sperm. A room Dwayne felt like he could wear, the way he wore his clothes.

What an odd thought, he pondered, his forehead wrinkling, but Dwayne Prime was not a man who went in much for philosophical musings as a rule. He sat on the edge of the bed, still whistling, and got to work on his shoes as the toilet stirred from the ensuite. "Hey!" The voice from in there was high, singsong, a young voice still unpregnant. She'd been here just a few months; in a few more, if it turned out she wasn't as fertile as she should be, she'd vanish too. Eliminated? Warming some tech's bed? Helping out in the Creche? Who knew? "Is that 6280-G? You're early."

"I'm ready." He was, too, his cock already nearly there. He was feeling loose, energetic, ready to go; this was one of the days when he was actually going to enjoy the job. Well, until his shift at the Bloodhouse started anyway. "Come on out. Is it Junessa?"

"Juliessa." The ensuite door slid open. "A lot of people fuck that up." She emerged naked, her hair shiny from the shower, a tall lithe young thing with a perfect body. Dwayne felt his mouth start to water, his balls tingling. "Pleased to meet you. What's your name?" She stared blatantly at his lap as his pants removed themselves, big almond-shaped eyes lighting up as his dick came out. "Wow."

"I know. I'm Dwayne." He lay back on the hard bed, opening his legs while his trousers fell. His penis lay fat across his upper thigh, still surging slowly toward full erection. "Juliessa. Nice name," he went on vaguely, his throat going thick all of a sudden. Jesus, she was a fine little bitch! "You've got great tits, Juliessa." He popped the capsule greedily.

She laughed, the sound a tinkling bell. He felt his balls lurch again. He'd not last long with this one. Her smell wafted toward him now as she knelt on the bed beside him. "Thanks. They are. But my pussy's even better."

"I'll bet," he guffawed, grinning up at her as she swung one lithe leg up over his smooth, scarred chest just beneath his neck, his hands rising to her ass in that automatic motion he'd done every day for so long now: so many asscheeks. So many pussies. Each and every one of them perfect, in their way, his grin rising to meet the glimmer hiding behind the taut, perfect folds of her young vagina.

Ah. Now he smelled her. He did remember. "Juliessa," he rasped, enjoying the little shudder in her tight thighs on his chest when his mouth reached her, tongue extended in lazy expectation of the long, wet swoop along her lips. She gasped, and when he felt his face brush against her smooth, muscled belly, her juices on his tongue and her head already tossing back, he knew this Juliessa would be a frequent topic of coalfire conversation.

The younger bedwarmers never liked hearing their men talk about inseminating the Carriers, but they could fuck off. If they could get their wombs in order, they'd be Carriers too. Juliessa swung her hips smoothly forward up his face, dragging her slit along his nose, giggling breathlessly. "Fuck yes, Dwayne baby," she sighed, and he'd heard so many women sigh in so many ways; this one sounded genuine, thank Buddha.

A hot filly who loved sex. She'd go far here.

Dwayne thought about her, thirty or forty years hence, dimpling up at him as she handed him an Assignment from Keth's chair, her face and body older but still eye-catching; maybe, he pondered as he licked her out, just maybe, she'd be his bedwarmer by then, cuddled by the fire through short years of stars and smiles. And he'd still, even then, be wedging his tongue between these same pussy lips, still looking up at these same tits shuddering above as she ground herself against his chin.

He reached blindly up, the ache in his new thumb forgotten when it met his forefinger with one fat, shuddering nipple in between, her gasp rewarding him. She tasted sharp, tangy, exciting, and he could feel how hard he was without even having to give himself an experimental twitch. He twisted hard at her tit, those bewitching eyes of hers impossibly huge in a long, pointy face, and gave her distended clit one last hard suck before he spat her out. "Ride me. Now," he snarled, brooking no argument, which was fine; this bitch was wet enough not to want to give him one, her ass inching down his chest until she felt the blunt hot stab of his dick against her butt.

"You're going to love cumming in me," she grated, all business, all confidence, her body rising to hover above him. He lifted his head, always mesmerized at the sight of his dick as it worked its way into a new Carrier. He clung hard to both cheeks of that amazing ass of hers while she reached down behind herself, groping blindly under her wet slit as her eyes followed his down to where their bodies waited to join, and then she was lifting his purpled cock straight up to reach inside her. "Yes," she hissed, falling slowly, inevitably onto his hard-on. "Fuck, Dwayne!" she whined.

"Yeah," he cheered her quietly on, feeling every gelid twitch of her snatch as it sank inch by inch to take him in. Sometimes, with less confident Carriers, this was the time he'd have arched up into her, but Juliessa's eyes and body told him she knew just what she was doing. "Take that dick."

"You don't have to beg." It was a breathless, gusting titter, her breath catching as, at last, her hairless body settled onto his. She reached one long-fingered hand to her nipple, rolling it, the other sinking easily to push her clit against the pulsing pressure of his cock behind it. "You're going to cum. And I'm going to cum." She smiled, her dimples carved deep. "Business with pleasure."

"Fuck," he groaned, his balls already shivering as she rose and fell, every muscle lined tautly under her smooth young skin. Their bodies made that eternal, lewd, wet slap when they met. She was flawless, moving with the surety of a woman doing what she was made to do: take the cum of a willing man, and her mouth fell open, her eyes boring into him, as she sped up.

She ground down on him intensely now, her hands on his chest bracing her as she rose and fell with her tits in his face, and when she heard his breath catch she leaned low to his ear. "Do it, dammit," she grunted, the need sharpening her voice. "Cum for me," she commanded. Her voice rose toward a whine, her fingers busy at her clit, and just as her pussy squeezed hard around his sliding dick he arched up high, reaching as deeply as he could before he let go.

Their eyes met, locked in, both of them panting as he fired into her needy womb, rope after healthy rope, his load filling her completely as, exhausted, she flopped onto him, her sweat-slicked body smearing across his as she exploded in delirious laughter. Dwayne sprawled, sighing happily with his hand full of her smooth, muscled ass, his nose full of her. "Thanks. That was amazing, Junessa."

"Mmm. Juliessa." She licked behind his ear, giggling.

"Juliessa." He smiled. "Nice name."

* * *

Dwayne checked his time implant; perfect. Time for a tea before his shift started, even with time factored in for sharpening his knives. The motor pool was deserted, all four trucks gone already over the ridge; it would be a busy day in the Bloodhouse, he knew. Space must have been a nasty place recently. "Dwayne Prime," he sang to the guard at the Bloodhouse. "6280-E."

"What's that?" The guard blinked, his implant stirring, and Dwayne shook his head. "6280-G, was it?"

"Oh. Yes." He smiled, clapping the kid on the shoulder. "How many orders today?"

The guard's eyes lost focus for a moment, his implant squawking in his brain. "477, sir."

"Shit." The usual number never went higher than 200. He scratched at his empty balls, where the new testicle had been installed last spring, and shrugged. "Well. I guess it'll be a long day. Have a good one, kid."

The smell hit him as soon as he walked in, knife cases swinging from his shoulder. It was, indeed, a long day.

* * *

"What are you thinking about, Sugar-dick?" Bonnie's voice was a drowsy whisper in his ear, deeply resonant like the sound of the waves on the beach down past the grove. Her splayed fingers rested easily atop his abs, her hand warm and dry and soothing as it had always been. All around them floated the fragrant coal-smoke, wavering among the conversations, all of it punctuated by the high, sad throb of Jeff P's cello.

He kissed her short hair. "Me? Thinking?" He'd cut himself at the Bloodhouse that day, a moment's inattention with the cutter as he and Paminda raced to fill the orders, endless orders. That one had been an arm, the clone arriving pale and shaky like they all did, a thick black cutline inked above the bicep. Dwayne had held the clone down, both their tendons corded under sweaty skin while Paminda, her hair clamped in her teeth, blew through skin and bone with the cutter, the smell of the cautery making its faint way even through their olfactory blockers. The cutter had nicked Dwayne's finger in all the confusion, the digit spinning across the room, and he'd grabbed a replacement from the bin and flashed it on as a stopgap until he could order a new one from his own clone. Bonnie kissed the scar. "I'm not thinking about anything, Bon."

"Fucking Minda," she tutted, examining the repair. "She's fast, but so careless."

"Now now." Paminda had been in their group for years, warming old Kenny Prime's bed, her underachieving womb condemning her to a life of work instead of sex. But the work wasn't hard, and at least she hadn't been sent back to whatever grim factory planet she hailed from. Or worse. "It was a busy day, Bon. Wasn't her fault. The clone just wouldn't be still." He waggled the finger. "Still works; I just can't feel anything." He was trying not to think much about that. This never used to happen. He wasn't sure when he'd stopped feeling the temporaries properly, but he suspected it was due to the medical tech's decreases in his sensory cortex.

Downsloping.

"You should be pissed at her." Bonnie was a good woman, her body built for the Farm; twenty clones she'd spawned, and all of them healthy. "Fucking barren bitch." She could be difficult, though. He sighed and propped himself up on the sand, looking out at the starlit whitecaps. Palm trees stirred all around him, the beach as idyllic as it had been for all these years. Bonnie... She was the latest in a long, long, long line of bedwarmers, some good and some bad, and he wondered if she realized how low she was on that particular totem pole. She couldn't, though; her life was short, compact, singular, and it was always hard for the women to think of themselves as parts of a long, continuous line, like Yule lights on a trellis.

He'd gone without, sometimes, long peaceful years in a solo bed, and then he'd tried men sometimes too. But he'd always gone back to his sweet spot, the retired Carriers, so warm and safe and different from the younger, fertile ones to whom he owed his sperm. That was the tradeoff: day after day of eternal sex, in trade for all the cloned parts he'd ever need until his cerebellum winked out. That, and an endless lifetime in the Bloodhouse. Charnel and carnal, old Julian Prime had called it in his laughing way: he'd had a fine sense of humor until his mind had gone at long last. It had started, if Dwayne remembered correctly, in his angular gyrus? Or maybe his suprachiasmatic nucleus.