seven
another awakens.
he cannot in good conscience do this again.
the fifth clone is dying, crumbling apart, his organs failing. his bloodied vomit stains the base's bathroom, stains his bedroom. the sheets will need to be replaced again.
the sixth clone is dying, three years counting down one second at a time. even if not for his reduced lifespan, he would be condemned to death for knowledge. his logic has trumped the system. perhaps his tests were not necessary; he dared to walk on wobbling legs.
all of them have been his friends, his wards, his very own to safeguard and comfort in these quiet white halls. all of them he has deceived, gently suggesting that they prepare to depart for earth when the days grew too wearisome. his guilt lies with the traces of ash that still rest in the stillness of tiles that no wind will ever disturb.
he wants to see the fifth rest in peace. he's worked three years and beyond, more than most. he's cared for the plants, given them names, shared his music. he deserves to go however he may wish; to end him with a flash of heat as the ones before is unthinkable.
he wants to see the sixth eat more than beans with sauce. he wants to see him leave and find new places with their own hidden rooms. he wants him to hear voices from the present.
he has only ever wished to help sam -- every one of him.
gerty reboots.
little memories... your little feet, working the machine. will it spin? will it soar? my little dream, working the machine.
-- gorillaz, "empire ants"