As a clone, you basically have infinite life. When you have infinite life, the concept of an afterlife becomes more of an afterthought or point of philosophical discussion rather than something at the forefront of your belief system. Not that this encourages such debate. There were quite a few in the first generation of space travellers that refused to be cloned, lest they be denied entrance into an afterlife. Suffice to say, they're no longer with us.

Currently, the only real religion on Plymouth is the idea of "the Dark," a holdover from centuries of space travel. The idea that the universe is conscious, yet unseen, as is the case with dark matter. However, no collective religious body exists in Plymouth, and while references may be made to old Terran religions in everyday conversation (e.g. "oh my God"), this does not convey in of itself a personal belief on the utterer's part.

I suppose we're not so different from Earthers in that regard then.

A Lecture on the Cultural Development of Mankind over the Last Three Centuries (excerpt)

The Repopulation: The Price of Freedom

Chapter 3: Family

"Y'know, it was once said the price of freedom is eternal vigilance."

"Yeah? Well whoever said that was an idiot."

Long murmured something over his dodom. Obore took another swill of his, the green, alcoholic fluid pouring down his throat, and onto his duster and the bar table. Back on Terra, there was a drink called beer. He remembered consuming it. But centuries of cloning and memory transfer had taken its toll, and he couldn't remember the taste. Only the act of sampling the liquid. And over three lives-worth of drinking at Bolton's Bar hadn't generated anything remotely close to what he believed beer actually tasted like.

"I mean, eh, think 'bout it," Long said, gazing at Obore through bleary eyes. "We're…free, ya know? On Rhyl…daine…"

"Freedom," Obore slurred. "I mean, lesoo…crap. Food…crap. Council's crap. This…" He slammed down his glass, "drink crap!" He looked up at Bolton who'd glanced his way from behind the counter. "Nah offense."

"None taken. You smell like crap anyway."

Long made a noise that sounded like a cross between a snort, a hiccup, and the mating call of a nacoot. Obore just finished his dodom and slammed the empty glass down.

"'nother round."

Bolton obliged. Three lives of drinking here was enough to convey that no matter which version of Obore Daniels was getting drunk, he'd never accept the argument of "you've had enough."

Only in one of those lives had he ended up in the drunk tank.

Another glass of dodom appeared before him. Obore looked down at it. A week had passed since his meeting with the Council. A week of nothing – no word on a third member for their squad, no word of when, or if Jayne might be put on the List, no hazard pay to supplement his weekly wage. So all he'd been allowed to do was do what he did best while in Plymouth – eat, drink, gamble, sleep, and drink. And unlike his predecessor, this version of Dinh Long was willing to take part in it.

Thunk.

Obore glanced at Long's unconscious body on the floor, dodom running over his clothes. Watched as a pair of bouncers walked over and dragged his unconscious body away to the drunk tank. Obore looked at Bolton.

"It bother ya?" he asked, wondering why the barkeep was looking so blurry. "Ya make more mummy off 'im through the tank charge rather than…hic…ta…tanking…his glass?"

"It bother you?" Bolton asked.

"Nah!" Obore yelled, taking another swig of the dodom. "I'm…God, ya knew?"

"No, you're not God. Or dark matter for that matter." Bolton leant over. "What's eating you Obore?"

Obore took another swig of the dodom. Already the glass was empty, becoming glass number something, beating his former record of something.

"You miss Jayne, that it?"

Obore thumped down a fist. "'nother round."

"Obore, I don't-"

The trooper grabbed the bartender by his collar. "You nud seed knew tu ma till know. Yee wunna stat her?"

"What?"

"I said…giv…reed…"

"Round?"

"T…two."

Bolton obliged. Obore picked up both of the glasses and started walking.

"Hey, you haven't paid."

"Put…tab…"

"You don't have a tab."

"I don new!"

Obore kept stumbling. Kept hiccupping. Kept wondering why his bladder felt like it was the size of a peanut.

He made it out okay though. Only one of the glasses fell on the floor by the end of it.

Obore kept stumbling. The lights kept waving their beams at him in an effort to confound him. He kept feeling for his dodom glasses. They were here. Somewhere. Maybe in one of his pockets.

Fuck 'em.

Plymouth didn't have much in the way of light pollution. Partly due to size, partly due to lack of need – most people walked within its walls, most of its vehicles were reserved for outside reconnaissance, hunting, or when the time came to clear out some lesoo that had decided to not accept that humans had more guns, and were better at using them.

Fucking stars.

Somewhere, there was Terra and its star. Out there, in the black…long gone…

Like Jayne.

Obore stumbled. Jayne was gone. Gone gone gone. Least she was until she was cloned. Whenever that was. It…

He tripped. His face hit the dirt. He let out a cruse into the night. Rolled over and began to laugh.

Not always like…this.

Once, it had been different. He knew that much. He-

"You alright?"

Someone was talking to him. He looked up at the figure. He looked at the hand the figure had provided for him.

"Here, let me help you."

Obore took it. He stumbled to his feet. He swayed.

"Um, you okay?" the fuzzy asked him.

"Oh…err, fine," said Obore, stumbling around. "I…er…give me a sec."

"Huh?"

It was at that point that Obore Daniels's stomach decided it had had enough and decided to disgorge some of its contents. Which normally wouldn't have been a problem.

Unfortunately, those contents landed on the figure in front of him.

Rhyldan's sun was bright the following day.

Obore squinted as he peered out through the drunk tank's doorway, the door itself having just been opened. It felt like there was a jackhammer in his head, sandpaper down his throat, and that he was lying in his own vomit.

"You awake?" a voice asked.

Shit, he thought. He was lying in his own vomit.

"Mister Daniels?"

There was a figure in the doorway. The one who was talking to him, as if calling across the void of space. Obore stumbled to his feet – more to get out of the vomit than anything else.

"Good, you are awake" the figure said. He felt a plastic flask be shoved into his hand. "Drink this."

He obeyed the order. Decades ago he'd done the same thing the last time he was in here. The aluminium walls were rusted, the water tasted a bit better, the shadowy figure wasn't Officer Luis Frenso, but otherwise, the procedure was the same.

"That'll be two-hundred credits," the shadow said. "Pay on the way out."

"What?" Obore said. "But I-"

"Twenty credits for unpaid dodom beverages and stolen glasses. Forty credits for service fee. Twenty credits for accommodation fee. Ten credits for cleaning fee."

Obore glanced at the vomit. Ugh.

"And one-hundred and ten credits for assault."

"What?"

"Assault," the shadow replied, taking the water. "Person who brought you in? Claims you assaulted her."

"But I-"

"Was drunk," the shadow replied. "Who knows what you did?"

Obore took another swig of water. Two-hundred credits. That was half his week's standard pay. He grasped the flask tighter as the shadow started to come into focus – some no-name Civil Protection officer that wasn't Luis Frenso.

"Bet you're loving this," Obore murmured. "Me, stuck in Plymouth. Down with other CPs like your sorry arse and-"

The man took the water away. He handed him a scanner. "Credit chip please."

Obore coughed. Two-hundred fucking credits.

"You gonna make this tough?"

Assault. Jayne dead. Long brought down to his level.

"Mister Daniels?"

"Fine," Obore sighed. "But on the condition that I get another water bottle."

Coffee. Grown from the coffee bean. Grown from the evergreen shrub of the genus Coffera. Imported to Rhyldan on the Northern Star. Grown in the agricultural areas outside the walls of Plymouth. And right now, entering Obore's mouth.

Holy Dark, I needed that.

Obore had heard it debated whether coffee actually rehydrated you or not. But he'd finished the second water bottle the git back at the drunk tank had given him, now he needed something to wake him up. And so far, it was working.

Obore leant back in his chair, feeling the fabric of his duster against the back of his neck as he closed his eyes. A trip to the dry cleaners had sorted out the vomit's stains, and more importantly, smell. The sun was at noon, the Coffee House (as it was simply called) was filling up, and along the dust streets, people moved. For a moment, he could forget the Council. For a moment, he could forget the problems of the replacement for Jayne. For a moment, he could forget her dying at the hands of the lesoo.

But only for a moment. Because then, he could see her dying. Then, he could see Long pulling the trigger, of the head of the Long before him disappearing into a setlang's jaws. He could see the other times he died. Once through a lesoo bullet in the chest, leaving him to bleed out. Another through an axe to the back of the head, narrowly missing his judair. Of every time before that, on the Northern Star. Of old age. Of disease. Every. Single. Time.

"Huh. It's you."

And his eyes sprang open, as if expecting to see the Reaper himself. Or herself. Some believed Death was a woman. Some believed in old Terran religions, some believed in the Dark and the notion that human souls joined the fabric of the universe before being returned to a new physical shell. The notion that a soul existed and had to go somewhere after the body's death.

"Glad to see you're up," said the voice sarcastically.

And right now, Obore wasn't sure what he believed. Bar that the person standing in front of him, the dark-skinned, muscular woman, meant trouble.

"I know you," he murmured, before mentally kicking herself. Don't establish a connection idiot!

"Yeah, I bet you do," she answered.

"I saw you," he continued, his tongue outpacing his mind as he continued babbling. "A week ago…outside the Council chambers…you were-"

"Pissed?" she asked. "Yeah. I was. And no thanks to you, I've got this to show for our little meeting last night."

She sat down on the seat opposite Obore's, resting her arms on the small circular table. Obore opened a mouth to protest but stopped short when one of those arms brushed some hair from her face. Revealing her right eye. Her blackened eye.

"Oh," Obore said.

"Used a plasti-pack," the woman said. "Still hurts."

Obore went back to his coffee. "You want some more blood from me, forget it. I paid the fine."

"For assault, yes. The vomit on my clothes however-"

Obore thumped down a hand. He met her gaze. "I don't care," he said.

He closed his eyes and went back to his coffee, hoping that when he opened them, she'd be gone. He had no problems talking to women – he quite liked talking to women, especially when they'd let him make eye contact with other areas of their body. What he didn't like was women who had a problem with him. Or men for that matter. But-

Screw it.

He opened his eyes. She was still there.

Bugger.

The woman was smiling faintly. "What do you care about?" she asked.

"Stuff," Obore grunted, taking another sip of the coffee. It was getting dangerously low he noticed – if he ran out he'd have one less weapon in his arsenal to dissuade conversation.

"Right," the woman said. "So you don't care about Jayne then."

Obore slammed the coffee down on the table, its black liquid spilling over the tablecloth. "The hell you on about?" he hissed.

"Oh Jayne, oh Jayne, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the woman mocked in a high pitched voice. "Seriously, you were like a crying child."

Obore slammed down both his hands and got to his feet. He could feel people's eyes on him. Just as surely as he could feel the urge to repeat the events of last night as far as physical assault went. And show everyone what "assault" actually entailed.

"Still," the woman said, still seated, "it's not as if you see any children around here."

Obore raised an eyebrow. That…it was the first…not "intelligent" thing she'd said per se, but…it was enough to get him to sit down. To look at his empty coffee cup, and put it to the side of the table.

"What about children?" he murmured.

The woman didn't answer. She just sat there. Playing with the table cloth, running its fabric between her fingers.

"Alright," Obore said. "Let's get to it – why are you here?"

The woman remained silent.

"Okay, let's go back a bit," he said. "Why were you at the Council house a week ago? What's your name?"

"Emily," she said. "Emily Salazar."

She extended a hand across the table. After a moment's hesitation, Obore took it.

"Obore," he said. "Obore Daniels."

The woman broke free of the handhold. "To answer your other question, I was there for two reasons. One of them was about the town greenhouses."

"You work at the greenhouses?"

"Yes," she said. "And the other…" She trailed off, fiddling with the fabric again. She-

No.

It wasn't just the fabric, Obore realized. It was what was under it. Something he hadn't seen until now, that he'd somehow missed completely. A golden band, on her left ring finger. Something that wasn't seen much in New Plymouth in Obore's experience, but could still be found. A wedding ring.

Huh. So where's the husband?

"The other thing was about my husband," she said suddenly.

Oh. Obore cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. Is he…"

He trailed off. He'd not seen the look on her face before. But he knew it. Knew it because he'd felt it. About Jayne. Only…only he suspected that Emily Salazar had far more of an excuse to be sad. Had actual reason to be pissed about being denied access to the Council. Had reason…whatever it was…to be seeing him now.

Obore gestured to a waitress. "Can I see the menu again?" he asked.

Obore couldn't remember the last time he'd visited the greenhouses. Which meant that either his memory was being a twitchy bugger, or that he'd genuinely never been to the structures. And if that was the case, then it meant that Emily was showing him the buildings for the first time.

"Huh," he said.

"Huh?" Emily asked, glancing at him. "Huh what?"

"No, that's all. Huh."

"Huh. Alright then."

Obore took a swig of water from the bottle he'd got from the drunk tank. The coffee was long gone. But he'd given it a refill back at the Coffee House, and water lasted longer. Long enough so that as they'd made their way from one sector to another of Plymouth, he still had the liquid on hand. He took another swig.

Needed that.

Which, he noticed, the crops didn't. They were everywhere, and not just filling up the interior of the greenhouses. Carrots, sorkelos, cabbages, tagatas, basically every fruit and vegetable native to Earth and Rhyldan.

"Why's this here?" he asked as the pair walked through.

"Pardon?" Emily asked.

"I mean, all this space devoted to crop growing," Obore said, picking an apple off a tree, ignoring the withering gaze of the groundskeeper nearby. "There's agricultural fields outside Plymouth. Why have greenhouses within the town?"

"Well you're a soldier, you tell me."

Obore took a bite of the apple. "I don't follow," he said, between mouthfuls.

"Lesoo," Emily answered, taking a tagata and taking a bite, its purple juice running down her chin as the groundskeeper stormed away, muttering about freeloaders. "Council order – in the event of losing outer territory, such as in a siege, it's required that the city be able to sustain itself from within its walls."

"And this can do that?" Obore asked, gesturing around. "Is it enough to sustain a town by itself.

Emily shrugged. "Maybe. Hopefully we won't find out."

"No,"Obore said before taking another bite of the apple. "I suppose not."

The pair kept walking, finishing off their fruits of choice. Emily entered one of the greenhouses, and immediately, Obore took off his leather duster and took another swig of water. It was hot, humid, and already he could feel sweat trickling down his forehead and seeping into his t-shirt.

"And this is where I work," Emily said.

She was sweating too, Obore noticed.

"Where…Michael…used to work with me."

Obore remained silent. Emily had mentioned her husband back at the café, but had otherwise remained silent as he'd had his second coffee, and she her first. Afterwards, she'd invited him to the greenhouse. He'd taken up her offer – partly because he had nothing better to do. But mostly because he could tell that she wanted to discuss something, and for whatever reason, wasn't comfortable doing it back at the Coffee House.

"Michael was…um…" Emily brushed something from her eye, but Obore couldn't tell if it was above or below. She turned around, running her hands through the foliage around her. "He was a botanist, actually. I was his assistant on Earth." She sighed, glancing back at him. "You remember much about home?"

Obore shrugged. "Bits and pieces."

"Must have been important, for you to get on the Northern Star."

"Yeah, well, I'm a soldier now. I'm good at killing." He thought of Jayne. "As in, lesoo."

You didn't kill her. Dinh did.

Emily nodded. "Fair enough. The judair isn't perfect, no matter what the techies say. Even eidetic memory only lasts a single lifetime."

Obore didn't know what "eidetic" meant. But he let her keep talking.

"Michael he…well…" She sighed again, putting her hands in her pockets. "It was a u'fow, actually. They come to the gardens every so often, trying to get the food we grow. And…" She let out a gasp. "One bit him. We…" She took a breath. "Couldn't help him in time."

Obore remained silent. U'fows. They bore resemblance to the snakes of Earth, but were actually mammals. And even more poisonous than their reptilian counterparts. He watched as Emily brushed her hand through the foliage. If this Michael had been bitten, then he'd have had little chance of surviving, he reflected. Though at least, he supposed, the death would have been quick.

Not like Jayne's.

He shook the thought away. Jayne. She kept coming back to him. And Emily…well, it was a woman thing, he told himself. Females of the species, biological imperatives, even if humans were all clones nowadays, the sex drive had never been removed, nor had anyone ever sought to remove it to his knowledge.

Emily was still silent though, so he spoke up. "Listen, Miss…I mean, Mrs Salazar…I'm sorry about your husband. But why are you telling me this?" He took another sip of water. "Why am I here? Why…" He trailed off as she turned back to look at him. "Why hasn't he been cloned?"

"I was at the Council house to find out."

"Yeah, I…yeah, I recall," Obore said, glancing back at the greenhouse door, shut behind him. "But look, I hate the Council as much as you do. But I can't help you."

"Actually, you might be able to," Emily said.

The door opened. And two other people walked in. Neither of them gardeners. Neither of them smiling.

"Emily?" he asked, reaching for a pistol that he realized wasn't there, and hadn't been for days. "What is this?"

"A meeting," she said, and he saw that she was actually smiling. "One of many actually."

"The hell?"

One of the two men held out a hand. "Ayers Murphy," he said. "Electrician."

Obore gingerly took it, while looking at the other guy. "And you?" he asked.

He didn't answer.

"Hello?"

"Boggs is deaf," Murphy answered. "Viral infection. It could be cured in another clone, but…well, none of us are keen to be put on the List.

Boggs, if that really was his name, smiled faintly. Obore didn't return it. The man was a walking giant. Regardless, Obore freed his palm from the handshake. Murphy's hands was soft, calloused, in stark contrast to his hard, weathered own. Boggs was wandering around, looking at the plants. Emily was just standing there.

"Great," he said. "So why are we here? Why am I here?"

She opened her mouth.

"And tell me why I should stay."

"Alright," Emily said. "I'll tell you. But what do you want answered first?"

Obore remained silent. What he wanted to do was leave. There was nothing threatening about Emily and her gang (besides Boggs, and even he was literally smelling the flowers), but there was something…off, about it, he knew. And as a person who'd faced his problems face-to-face as long as he'd been on Rhyldan, secrets were something he detested. And thankfully, rarely had to face.

"We're here because we all lost someone," Emily said. "Murphy lost his brother. Lightning strike." She gestured to Boggs. "Boggs lost his sister. Hornterra fever, few years back. And I…" She smiled bitterly. "Well, I lost a husband."

"And me?"

"Jayne," she said. "You lost Jayne."

Obore started moving towards the door. "I don't have time for-"

He stopped. Boggs was standing before him, and his right hand was on Obore's shoulder. He was squeezing. And it hurt.

"Like I said, we all lost someone," said Emily. "And the Council, for whatever reason, hasn't re-cloned them."

"So?" Obore asked, getting his shoulder free from the giant and rubbing it. "The List is long."

"Yeah, it is," Emily answered. "But why is that? Why is the List getting longer? Why is the Council so slow to bring back friends and family?"

"Um…resources?"

"Please," Emily sneered. "Murphy, tell him."

"My brother died because he was working on a transmissions array in a lightning storm. It was understaffed, yet he worked alone. And died. If the Council had provided him with a team, the job could have been done faster." He clenched his fists. "He might still be alive."

"Boggs's sister," Emily said. "Dead because the Council was so slow in developing a vaccination program. If she was alive today, she might be able to remind people how nasty it is to bleed out of your eyes before your innards rot away."

Obore raised an eyebrow. Up until now, Emily had been sad, regretful, snide…but now, her looks, her voice…they were positively venomous.

"And Michael's dead," she murmured. "Course the Council can't be blamed for that. But I can blame them for not bringing him back. And quite frankly, I'm beginning to suspect they intend not to. Ever."

"And why wouldn't they?" Obore murmured, taking another sip of water.

"Because…" Emily sighed, again brushing her hand through some leaves. "He…I…we wanted children."

Obore spat the water out. "Children?!"

"Is that so strange?"

"Strange? Emily, there hasn't been any children for over a century!"

"Three, actually," Murphy commented. "Not since we left Earth. Genetic engineering. All infertile."

"Exactly!" Obore exclaimed. "Why…why would you-"

"Why not?" Emily asked. "The human infertility in each clone is easily solved through gene therapy. The possibility of reversal was made for on the Northern Star, in case something went wrong with the cloning tech."

"Because…because…"

Obore trailed off. He had no desire for children. He couldn't recall ever having a desire for it. But as he thought about it…

"Obore, we're clones," Emily said. "The Council has always said children would bog down the community. It takes a village to raise a child, this planet seems intent on killing us half the time, and on the Northern Star, well, hardly a place to raise a baby." She threw up her hands. "But times have changed! They have to change!"

"Do they?" Obore asked. "Like you said, this planet hates us. Least the lesoo do. You really want to bring a child into all that?"

"Yes," she said. "And Michael did too. And I believe that I have a right to make that decision myself. Just as I have a right to get my husband back. Like Murphy and Boggs have a right to get their family members back. Like you have a right to get Jayne back."

Obore remained silent. Rights…that was a charged word. And rarely used.

"There are others," Emily said. "People who want family members back. Who want the Council to actually counsel, not just make arbitrary decisions for all of us. We…" She sighed. "We want change, Obore. We want your help."

He blinked. Emily didn't. Nor did Murphy or Boggs for that matter.

"Me," he asked. "You want me?"

"Why not?" Emily asked. "You're a sergeant. A leader already. You have access to the Council. And you have as much reason to petition for change as any of us."

Obore sighed. He took a sip at his water bottle, only to realize that it was empty.

Shit.

The sergeant started walking through the greenhouse, biding his time, choosing his words. Wants. Needs. Two separate things. New Plymouth needed people. Workers. Botanists, techies, soldiers. What it didn't need was children, or family members arbitrarily restored. He didn't need Jayne back. But…

"Obore?" Emily asked.

But he wanted her. He hadn't realized that until now. Just…just a chance to talk to her again. It didn't have to go beyond that. She…she was dead, he told himself. Not necessarily because of him. Not even necessarily because of the Council, even if they were spread out his squad too thin. But she was dead, they could change that. Surely after everything she'd done, they had an obligation to.

"Listen," Emily said, putting her hands in her pockets. "You want out, I understand. But, I mean…we're not talking anything drastic, alright? Just petitions. Maybe protests. Grassroots activism."

"You're telling me this," Obore said, turning back to her. "This stuff. Material I would usually bring to the Council."

Murphy took a step towards him. Emily held out a hand. "Your job is to fight lesoo though, isn't it?" she asked. "Wouldn't it be better to have Jayne with you?"

"Fuck you," he snarled.

"Nice," Murphy said. "But you in, or out?"

Obore looked at Murphy. At Boggs. At Emily. A team of three. Just like the team he, Jayne, and Long had had. The team that was broken. Like all these people were as far as familial bonds went. Bonds that the Council could fix, resources be damned.

"Obore?" Emily asked. "You can think about it if you want, but-"

"I'm in," he interrupted. "The Dark help me, I'm in." He held out a hand. "I serve New Plymouth. The Council's meant to. It's…well, my job."

Emily smiled and took it. So did Murphy and Boggs for that matter, least as far as the smiling thing went. Given how large Boggs's hands were, Obore wasn't complaining.

To the Council though…right now, among these people…complaining was something he was very ready to do.

For himself. For Jayne.

And everyone else.