Unintended
I think you two will get along well.
That's what he had said to her as he slid the folder across the desk. He'd given her all of the objective information: 28 years old, PhD student, new to University of Minnesota, pot smoker, clone. He'd made clear her responsibilities: collecting nighttime tissue samples, determining level of self-awareness, reporting changes in behavior or routine.
And then he'd given her the new-PhD pep talk. And that's where he went wrong.
It is essential, Dr. Cormier, that you devote yourself fully to this project and to your subject. You need to form a close bond with her, to gain her trust. Devotion and loyalty to one's experiment is the mark of a true scientist. I choose my team very carefully, and I think you have the potential to do great things here.
How foolish she'd been to nod along, to blush at his compliments. How foolish she'd been not to really listen.
How foolish he'd been to choose her, foolish not to see her heart.
She imagines this isn't what he meant when he told her to get close to Cosima. Sex? Yes, perhaps he had insinuated that sex might be a viable method of gaining the girl's trust. But the pull low in her gut as she sits on this bench, watching Cosima jog down the sidewalk towards the lab, late as usual? She does not think that's what Leekie meant.
And when he told her to be loyal and devoted? He probably meant to him, to the science, to the experiment. Loyal like he is, single-mindedly devoted. He probably didn't mean hiding the existence of the first child of a clone to ever exist because your subject doesn't seem like a subject anymore and all of this feels wrong. He probably didn't mean hanging up the phone and burying your face in her robe, to memorize the smell, to memorize her.
There are doubts now, hunkered down at the back of her skull. Perhaps he would have seen them at the beginning, if he had looked a little closer at her face when she opened that folder for the first time and saw thickly-lined eyes and dreadlocks. Somewhere in her peripheral vision she can just make out a growing hunch that keeping silent about the little girl is only the beginning of the havoc she will wreak for Cosima.
Last night, she lost her subject and gained the object of every thought that has run through her head since. Cosima. Cosima Niehaus. PhD student. Scientist. Aunt. Lover. Collector of rings and leather bracelets. Clone. Last night, Aldous Leekie lost his scientist in Minnesota, lost her to devotion and loyalty, lost her to a dark-haired girl.
She doesn't think this is what he intended at all.
She's on her feet now, unable and unwilling to resist the pull in her gut any longer. Down the sidewalk, through the doors, into the lab. She's pressing Cosima against the lab bench, reclaiming lips and teeth and tongue, ignoring the awkward blond boy hovering at their shoulders.
Yes, Aldous. I think we'll get along well. Thank you for this opportunity.