He looks at me, that odd look on his face, somewhere between disgust, pity, and longing. He wants me to be her. He'd give anything for me to be her, for me to be dead and her to be with him, walking, talking, and breathing. He'd be free with her, no beating around the bush, no awkward, sidelong glances. He'd look at her, the way I can remember him looking at me.
But not me. Her. I look down at my hands, each line etched into my palm, arranged exactly the way they always had been, the way hers always had been. I have her hands. I have her skin, her eyes, her voice, her memories. I have everything she ever had! And yet, I'm not her. I wish that I was.
He glances at me again, biting his lip slightly. I can see the way his teeth press hard into his lips. His hair stands up on end, like it always does. I remember it, from before. But I wasn't there, I'd never even met him, not really, not until now. She remembered his hair standing up, not me."You can still contribute," he says. "Things will just be...different."
He almost seems to emphasize the word, different. Not like it was. Because I'm different, a mere shadow of her, an copy, a look-alike. I want to scream at him. I have her mind, her thoughts, her memories, everything! And I have something else, too. Her love. Yes, I love him, with my whole heart, pounding in my chest, with everything that I am, whatever that is. And it hurts, badly. I turn away from him, glance to my other side, as though drawn to the scenery. In other circumstances, I might have enjoyed it. It's green, everywhere, alive and growing. Natural. Not like me. I'm not human. I'm not real. Unnatural.
A tear rolls down my cheek. It's warm, surprisingly. It feels as human as it ever has. But I've never cried before, I realize. But if I can cry, if I can feel, and I can love, what makes me not human? What makes me not her?
I brush away the tear and swallow hard, pushing the rest of the tears back and out of my eyes, determined not to let them fall. I—she never cried in front of him. She was strong, always. She had to be, she was a leader, and a good one at that. Strong for her city, strong for her people. If I couldn't be her, I'd be close, as close as I could get.
He looks at me again, still waiting for me to answer. I can still see it, the stark difference in the way he looks at me now and the way he looked at me—her—then. He respected her more. He...loved her. Maybe in not being her I could actually see that better than I—she—ever could before. When he saw my face, I could see it, the way he stared—gawked at me, couldn't find anything to say. He thought I was her, he was amazed, he was happy, he'd thought that he would never see her again. He never would.
I sigh. "That's not really the issue, John," I say at last. "I guess what really bothers me, is knowing that you and the others will always consider me less than what I really am." There, I'd said it. He thinks I'm less than her, no matter what he says to deny it, it's true. I'm a robot really, showing up on a life signs detector doesn't change that, feeling doesn't change that. Not to him, not to anyone. Maybe not to me.
"That's not true," he says, like I knew he would
"Of course it is," I reply, somewhat harshly. I look him strongly in the eye. He looks uncomfortable, sorry for me, for what I'm not and what I wish to be. I know he is, but telling him that I am her won't help him now. Even if I'm her, I'm...not her, not the way he wants me to be. But he loves her, and in a way...he loves me, but not me. "I don't blame you," I say quieter now.
He nods just slightly, frowning. He's thinking of her again, likely, blames himself for her death, probably. For my death, in a way. If I'm not her...well, I do know what she would have thought, how she would have felt about it, and what she would have said to him.
"John, she didn't blame you either. Not for getting captured, not for...anything," I say, avoiding mentioning her death. He's beating himself up over it, I can tell. Feeling guilty, sorry. "She'd want you to still live, even without her."
He looks at me, swallowing hard, blinking fast to rid himself of any sign of tears. He's strong, too, we both are. They both are. I'm not her. He opens his mouth to say something, then turns, frowning. "Did you hear something?" he asks.
Replicator ships are in the air. There 's no way he'd get out of here, unless...she'd die for him. He'll never see me as her, but I can still live up to her standards, to everything she was. I'll be her, I'll die for him and maybe, maybe someday he'll think better of me.