It wasn’t that hard, really. Easier than I thought it would be, considering how much cash these people shelled out for their “darling baby’s revival.” When the machines had finished and I opened my eyes again, I saw an unfamiliar woman, encrusted with jewels from the top of her hair to the toe of her heels, bedecked in that golden fabric woven entirely from that one spider’s silk, (which probably cost more than several countries combined), and I knew that it had not worked. I’d heard some rumors during training that this was the kid’s third time reviving in as many years – guess the promise of resurrection makes already stupid people even more so. I assumed that was why the woman didn’t look too worried, glancing at me as she tapped away at a holographic display beamed from her wrist.
“Welcome back, Jhonny,” she said, eyes back on her monitor. “You died when you decided to blow up your yacht. Again. I’ve told you before that you won’t remember it and yet you still insist on doing these ridiculous stunts just because it’s ‘cool’,” she quotes the word “cool” with her fingers, golden claw rings shimmering in the bluish white light of the medical bay. She dismisses something, closes her display, and turns to leave with a clack of her shoes. Not even a second glance at the person who’s supposed to be her son back again from the dead. “Well, you can’t sit here all day. Come along now, darling. I had them pick a taller specimen this time, since you complained that the last one was too short, but I’m sure my son can handle slightly longer legs.” She walked right out the door, never once slowing or turning back to look.
I stood, but didn’t follow her right away. I’m not sure what I expected. A check-up to make sure it went well? An immediate realization that her son wasn’t here? A mother and father in tears after almost losing their son yet again? What I found instead was… not that. She paused, finally, and glanced back at me.
“Well? What are you standing there for, hurry up!” I followed, and she turned away again, clacking and jangling down the hallway as servants hurried up to her, bringing her a warm towel, a drink, another pair of earrings which she swapped to as she walked, letting her hair down and bringing her a shawl, equally intricate and expensive-looking as everything else she wore. She acted like they were part of the furniture, as if she pulled her things from hatracks and shelves. None came to me. “Mother is very busy today; I could barely find the time to pick you up. I have a gathering at Lyrandra’s that I’ll be late to because of your dawdling, but that’s fine, I can just tell her I was busy sobbing over your death again. It’s not like that bitch cares anyway, she just wants me to show up so she can tell everyone she knows us. Hah! I’d like to see her face when she finds out her husband isn’t actually away on business…”
The woman’s prattling gossip dissolved into the background as we walked, leaving the chrome and steel for white marble and gold filigree, and door after ornate door passed as we walked for what seemed like an eternity. Even the scenery, ornate as it was with fine china, modern art pieces, oil paintings and holographic vistas, began to all look the same. I resisted the urge to pick at the seams in the overly-embroidered shirt and skin-tight pants I’d been stuffed into before the resurrection. She finally stopped, in the middle of a diss against some other person (Lyrandra’s cousin’s friend’s fiancee was caught in some scandal, apparently), and turned to look back at me again. We were in front of a metal door, out of place in the classical decór, looking like it came from one of those ancient sci-fi films. “Tran” or something, I think. (Didn’t get much of a chance to watch movies in the program, not even the really old ones. Or to do anything else, actually, outside of listening while we worked.)
“I had the servants put you in some of your own clothes this time, since you made such a big deal over how itchy the vessel’s clothes are last time. Honestly, I fail to see why you’d kick up
such a fuss about it – it’s not like you won’t be getting changed anyway, you’re too picky with your outfits nowadays – but I really do have to go now. It’s been a day since your death, the dinner with the Mollusks is tonight at six. Make sure you’re not late again, and dress appropriately this time. No more ‘holo-clothes,’ got it?” She glared at me, but didn’t even wait for a response before she turned and left again, taking all the staff with her. I was left alone in the hallway, and with nothing else to do, I went inside “Jhonny’s” room.
Like the door, everything was steel and neon blue, from floor to ceiling, and there were holographic displays everywhere. There were clothes and gadgets littered all over the floor, and a vanity overflowing with gems and gold sat next to what I assumed would be the closet, given the shirt-and-pants shapes on the display cast in front of what seemed to be a blank wall. The shelf sticking out from the wall next to the bed was the only thing kept relatively tidy, with a phone, what looked like a wristband, and a small box being the only things on it, arranged neatly and carefully. I sat on the bed, nearly jumping up again with surprise as it seemed to collapse beneath me, but it was just the give of an extremely soft mattress. I picked up the box, opening it out of curiosity to find a pair of diamond stud earrings, set in silver, nestled in dark blue velvet. I put it down again, fingering the holes they’d punched in my ear lobes a few weeks ago, lacking the basic metal studs they had us wear to keep the holes from closing.
Grabbing the wristband next, I found it to be whatever device gave the woman – Jhonny’s mother – her holographic display. Lights flickered on, and a “Welcome back, Jhonny” message assaulted my face, informing me that I’d passed the biological identity confirmation. Considering I’m supposedly a clone of Jhonny’s, I wasn’t surprised. What did surprise me, after dismissing an avalanche of cookie-cutter copies of “Sorry you died, message me when you’re back!” messages, was the realization that Jhonny didn’t need a phone, since he had this. I put the wristband down again, next to the earrings, and picked up the phone. It was off, but powered on easily enough. This one didn’t have hundreds of unread messages, or any notifications at all, actually. The only application beyond texting and calls was a “notes” app, containing what seemed to be a diary, every entry titled with a date. Tapping yesterday’s brought up an entry detailing the plans for the yacht incident, including specific details about who would be attending and when and where it would happen, formatted like a letter to himself, though he called himself “Jaundice” instead. He was planning on dying, and knew he’d wake up again, this made it clear. A note at the end, added almost as an afterthought, read “Maybe this time mother will care, since I’m breaking something she actually cares about instead of just myself.”
I close the app, power off the phone, and put it down again. If anyone realizes that I’m not Jhonny, they’ll probably kill me and try again with a different “vessel.” I thought it would be hard to pretend to be someone else, especially a rich kid who’d been born with a diamond encrusted golden spoon set in his mouth, someone who couldn’t be farther from myself. But it might be easier than I thought. I put the wristband on, then pick up the box with the earrings. Jhonny’s mother barely looked at him, and didn’t notice or care how quiet he was being. The servants didn’t seem to even notice him as I trailed along behind her. And the notes app diary that Jhonny kept suggested he didn’t have anyone to confide in except himself.
“If nobody cares about Jhonny,” I murmur to myself as I put on the earrings, “then nobody will care about me.”
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