Dinner was never easy in the Starr household. Amelia had the proclivity to eat in the elements, surrounded by nature’s pesky flying insects which were attracted to her garden which surrounded the oak table built into the long deck which overlooked the city and featured mountain and Lake Hollywood views. Twelve batted at the bugs. Amelia blamed her lack of comfort on “newness,” as she called it.

“You’re just new,” she said. “You’ve got to get used to eating outdoors. Get used to nature. It’s good for you.”

For Amelia, who grew up on a farm, eating in the backyard was quite the natural thing. She was always pleased to eat closest to where she sourced her fruits and vegetables, where she and Twelve spent their afternoons with hands dug deep into the damp earth.

In the earliest days, Amelia was every bit the nurturing mother that Twelve had been promised. She would guide her clone’s hands, showing her exactly what to do. She created a stable routine, and they worked side by side in the garden. Amelia was patient, always up early, and always a songbird despite the dawn still hours away, and she sang the songs she sang on Broadway when she was nineteen years old. Oh, what a beautiful morning, she’d croon… Oh, what a beautiful day. Twelve would lift her out of her wheelchair and set Amelia beside her, always awkward because her leg remained encased and only capable of bending slightly, but Twelve would help her get comfortable, one leg slightly bent and cumbersome, the other angled comfortably inward. Her left foot rested against her right knee.

Amelia was a living breathing funhouse mirror, still beautiful despite the years her illness had added to her face. When her attitude suddenly changed, it had come as a shock to Twelve who had regarded her as an angelic, kind thing. It was then that Twelve stopped seeing them as similar, and began to distinguish herself from her. After all, nature versus nurture had its effects, even on clones, and Twelve’s upbringing was entirely dissimilar to Amelia’s. Physically, Twelve’s eyes had a more youthful sheen and her skin was more vibrant and tighter. In many ways, they were passable as twins, but in many ways too they were dissimilar. Amelia called them “carbon copies,” but Twelve was not entirely carbon, but rather a carbon blended with a deluded Derapteur and her skin was cells and graphene.

“Hold your fork like this.” Amelia commanded.

She raised her hand to show Twelve how to hold her fork, which Twelve held in a fist.

“Like a pencil.” Amelia said.

Twelve didn’t resist. She adopted Amelia’s way for her own. Amelia and Darren smiled approvingly, and Twelve appreciated the teaching moment for connecting them. Their strained relationship allowed for few moments of genuine gladness.

“Have I passed on a deep-rooted love of vegetation to you?” Amelia asked with a giggle, proud of her well-timed pun.

“I appreciate our time in the garden.” Twelve answered.

“No. I mean through my DNA. Do you feel it too? Do you feel drawn to the garden, to the richness of good soil? Do you love the work?”

Amelia sipped her wine. Twelve couldn’t think of an answer. What would appease Amelia, who looked a bit red in the cheeks from the wine? Truthfully, she didn’t feel particularly drawn to anything except maybe Darren. She felt rather robotic during what Darren had called her adjustment period. He said it would be months before she felt comfortable outside of the factory, and although she was comfortable in the colorful Starr household and months had indeed passed, she rarely felt exhilarated or drawn to anything. She was cauterized by change. Perhaps, she was still suffering from the shock of being made. She had no preference in work. The flourishing garden was a reward for service well-done and the vegetation, the squash and spinach and cucumber, grew fat in neat rows. She’d have been equally satisfied cleaning the lavatory.

“So much of what makes a person a person is determined by experience and upbringing.” Darren offered.

He saved her from having to answer for herself. She shifted in her seat. She sensed a criticism coming. She hoped he wouldn’t go on.

“You know this, Amelia.” He continued. “You grew up on a farm in the Midwest, and Twelve was born four years ago in the factory. Apples and oranges, baby. She is alike in looks and mannerisms, but beyond that we need to create similarities. Cultivate them. The same way you cultivate your garden, and she will grow to be like you.”

She quickly drank the wine that remained in her glass, gulping it. Slivers of red dribbled out the side of her mouth. She was a desperate sort of woman, desperate to know that she’d created Twelve, not for her husband, but for herself. Her emotions seeped from her pours, wafted from her unyielding expression of forged cheerfulness. It wouldn’t have made a difference to Twelve except that Twelve’s sole purpose was to serve her.

“Your genes carry a strong work ethic.” Twelve offered. “I’m very grateful.”

Amelia snickered and poured herself another glass.

“And, are you fond of your name? Twelve?”

Darren was eager to change the subject, so he complimented the ripe tomatoes that topped the salad. Truly, it was a salad of exceptional high quality. The tender plant-based chicken was hunks of juicy faux-meat coated in sesame seeds and the vegetables were perfectly crunchy. Had they ever tasted real grass-fed chicken, they’d not have known the difference. Their manufactured chicken was a perfect copy. But, that wasn’t Amelia’s doing. It was the discovery of flavor scientists who’d long ago developed the perfect blend of ingredients to recreate the taste of popular meats. Amelia ignored her husband’s attempt at flattery because she’d only defrosted the chicken and then warmed it in the oven. She narrowed her eyes at Twelve. She enjoyed reminding her clone of her station; reminding her that she was unnatural to the world, created in a laboratory like the faux-chicken. They’d had their choice of names, but Amelia had settled on Twelve, as she was the twelfth attempt. It was a name she was born with, as the factory had daintily stitched AS12 on the lapels of her clothing, an acronym that meant, “Amelia Starr, twelfth attempt.”

“Let’s talk about Twelve’s future for a change, can we?” Darren asked.

“She doesn’t mind talking about it. Do you?”

Twelve shook her head because Amelia was certain to continue anyway, and she was taught to abide by the good manners of a butler graduated from the International School. She was to always kowtow to her superiors.

“Besides…” Amelia continued. “I want her to like it. You’re still so new, dear. If you’d prefer another name, I’ll give you a new name. Any name you want. You have your pick. We could even look at a list, a baby book or something, and see if there’s any in it you fancy.”

Automated response, category Unlawful Acts.

"Names are to be determined and created at the discretion of a clone’s superior. This name can be changed or altered for a period of one year from a clone’s inception. If you would like to change a clone’s name, simply state the name clearly, in language your clone can understand. Under no circumstances can a clone select a name for itself, pursuant to code a02."

Amelia’s wide-eyed wonderment, listening to Twelve recite the code, gave way to a burst of manic laughter.

“Did you write that?” She asked Darren.

He raised an eyebrow and gave his wife a stern look. His expression dared her to continue laughing. Sometimes he hated her. It was so obvious he hated her, the bugs that buzzed around them probably could sense it too. Her laughter abated to a slight giggle, but then she quieted completely. She placed her ice-cold hand on top of Twelve’s and gave her a short squeeze. Twelve was warmed by this gesture despite how cold her hand was; in fact, she rather hoped that Amelia’s hand would have lingered on hers for longer, like it had when she was training her in the garden.

This is comfort. Thought Twelve. This is what I need.

Amelia had touched a lot in the beginning, but she rarely touched anymore. The alcohol had a way of encroaching on and eliminating all forms of sincerity and kindness. Her happy turned sad; her elation miserable; her love to hate. Twelve had come to live with them during a rare time of sobriety, but it was short lived and was now an unspoken source of contention between she and Darren.

“It’s amazing what you’ve memorized.” Amelia said with cursory blue eyes. “That’s certainly something you acquired from me.”

“Amelia is lauded for her ability to memorize lines.” Darren bragged. “She’s old school that way. While the other actors rely on devices that feed them lines, Amelia’s performance is more authentic because she’s spends hours rehearsing.”

Amelia ignored this compliment.

“You can start forgetting all that factory shit any day now.” She said. “The first versions of you, well me rather, they all died. I wasn’t sure I’d have a clone, but here you are. You survived. You made it, so you may as well start doing what you were intended for, and that’s copying me and I don’t go about quoting the law, so you shouldn’t either.”

“This is inappropriate.” Darren warned.

His eyes clouded with anger. He is a man of typically many words, but he silently sulked when angry. He sneered at her. It was suddenly very clear that he wouldn’t stay. He’d go back to work and wouldn’t come home until late, and on those nights, Amelia stayed up and drank from the bottle long after Twelve went to bed, and Twelve would enter a troubled sleep if she was able to sleep at all. Neither woman wanted it to be one of those nights, but Amelia had trouble stopping once she got going.

“She likes the fucking story.” Amelia snapped. “The first eleven were determined unfit, but Darren won’t tell us what was wrong with them. I don’t know if they were missing limbs or had shit for brains… All that tissue went to waste.”

“It wasn’t wasted.” Darren interrupted. “It was put to good use. Everything is donated: skin tissue, the stem cells, organs… Everything is donated. Those failed attempts could save your life one day.”

“Well, that’s something. I guess. At least it wasn’t all burned up. Anyway, it was expensive, but the studio paid for all of it. It was them that wanted you, not me. It took me a long time to come around to the idea of it… Another me? Walking around? Doing my job? And, what will we do with you when you aren’t needed? When I’m better? I was about to call the whole thing off, but then you came along and survived.

“They were hopeful about you from the get-go. Darren called from the factory. He was bursting to tell me… So excited… So hopeful… He yelled, ‘She’s adapting… She’s adapting to the Nemo-learning devices.”

“Nano-learning devices.” Darren corrected.

“That’s what I said.” She attested. She was slurring her speech already.

“I remember that.” Twelve offered.

This surprised them. Darren encouraged her to continue. He was always encouraging her to participate and collecting data on her responses and behavior.

“What did you remember?” Amelia asked.

“Well, I don’t remember the first day or days… I don’t remember when I started breathing exactly… Or, when I opened my eyes for the first time, but I remember when it felt like I’d opened my eyes for the first time. I remember speaking, and there were tubes all around me…”

“You asked me, ‘what is that noise?’” Darren offered.

“I could see them. The others… They were in their glass tubes. Like me, but not like me at all because they were blathering. And, I heard a popping noise and there was viscera on the tube next to mine. The one in there, she exploded.”

“Did you worry that would happen to you?” He asked.

“Yes, but I remember you looked at me and said, very clearly, ‘don’t worry, that’s not going to happen to you.’ Then, I didn’t worry.”

“You’re very clever.” He said. “Dr. Rubbins was the scientist assigned to that lab and Dr. Jenkins. Do you remember them?”

“Those turkeys didn’t believe she’d make it.” Amelia said, resuming control of the narrative.

“They thought you were too quiet. But, Darren knew. He just knew somehow. He said, ‘Twelfth time is the charm.’”

“You said, ‘The smart ones are the quiet ones.’” Darren said. “And, long story short, you did make it. You are our success story.”

He stood up. Amelia poured another glass of wine her hands trembling, her extended leg bobbing unsteadily in its glass encasement bumping the edge of the table.

“I’ve got to back to the lab to work on more success stories.”

“Really?” Amelia’s happy was lost in the bottle. She was nearly sobbing. “Again? That’s the second time this week and it’s only Wednesday.”

“We’ve discussed this. We’re making progress on the new project, and I need to be there – night and day if need be. Besides, you have Twelve here to keep you company.”

“Oh Twelve.” She said, sarcastically. “The world class conversationalist.”

She placed her wine glass in the chair’s cup holder and wheeled away from the table and through the French doors into the kitchen. Darren shrugged and managed a weak smile.

“You’ll clean this mess up for her, right? She’ll get a bit of sleep and feel better. You do the same, okay?”

Twelve nodded, and began quick work of clearing the dinner dishes. He grabbed his hat from the coat hanger and disappeared out the front door. When finished, she headed to the living room where she found Amelia curled up on the sofa. She’d moved herself from her wheelchair to the sofa without Twelve’s assistance, which meant it was a good day. Less pain meant less pills, and although the pills stilled her anger, they caused shallow breathing and dangerous nodding off. Amelia lounged with her legs curled beside her. Her encasement had metal rods along the side that could be manipulated to angles. It was bulky and unsettling to look at, but she was comfortable.

“Sit down.”

Amelia patted the cushion beside her, and Twelve obliged. Their skin was the same delicate porcelain, and clone and superior were perfectly synchronized side by side on the sofa. The sunlight flowed through floor to ceiling windows which displayed a sweeping view of Los Angeles, and on the other side of the room a view of their drive-way and the tree-lined road which winded up and down the canyon. Darren’s BMW disappeared down the canyon, which meant The Factory was somewhere nearer downtown.

“Was it terribly frightening?” Amelia asked.

“Not really.”

“Even when the others died?”

“I didn’t know she’d died. Not really.” Twelve answered thoughtfully. “I remember the doors to her bay sliding away from each other, and realizing they opened and feeling that it would be exciting if mine opened too. The doctors were gone then. There was only the whisper of machines and these robotic arms that expertly cleaned her guts up.”

“I feel bad you know?” She sipped her wine and gazed out at the city, which was just beginning to twinkle with lights.

“About what?”

“They died. They were braindead, but they breathed, their hearts beat, and they all died or were put down like elderly cats, except they weren’t old. They were young, practically newborns.”

Amelia studied the face of her clone, made to look so much younger, but she would someday look young again too, when the case was off her leg, when she was healed, when her body could handle a bit of surgery and she could start wearing Derapteur-based creams on her face again. Certainly, they looked alike, but they weren’t alike in personality; at least, not in most ways.

“It’s empathy, Twelve. Don’t you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Tell the truth.” Amelia demanded.

“I didn’t have empathy in those first nubile moments. As I lie in my tube, I wasn’t afraid of the robotic arms, or the blood, or the devices they implanted inside me which were slowly teaching me language. It was the devices that gave me life, that helped me realize things, that taught me empathy. A baby panda imprints on its mother and then the mother brings death to its sibling via abandonment, but there is no resentment; such is the nature of survival.”

“Who is the mother in this scenario?” She asked.

“The factory. You. Darren. Everyone, I guess.”

“So, you don’t care about those others at all?”

“What does it matter? In a way we are all connected, but there could only be one. If I live, don’t they all? It was the point of their existence and mine to make a copy of you. So my survival is their survival.”

“You are quite special.” Amelia said to the surprise of Twelve who was still not used to being complimented. She was drunk, but her favorite saying was the truth comes out when you drink.

“You’re here. You’re right. That’s what matters. I’ll drink to that.”

Some of her vodka spilled onto the couch, but it slid off the stain-resistant fabric and pooled on the floor where a small mop-bot glided over and soaked it up. There were bots for every mess, different sizes. The mops followed Amelia; the vacuums followed Darren who would eat and walk from room to room spilling crumbs. Twelve wasn’t surprised she’d switched to liquor, but she wasn’t happy about it either.

“I was about to give up on the whole thing.” Amelia continued. “You are a perfect genetic match with none of my genetic predispositions. You won’t be an alcoholic, will you? I suspect not. Darren and the old boys probably made sure of that. The clones are perfect versions of ourselves…

“It’s harder to clone sick people, you know? This rotten leg could have destroyed more than just my career, but here you are ready to save my career. I guess I should be happy I’m alive and still famous...”

She spoke bitterly, and trailed off with her eyes still surveying the city which was beginning to twinkle in the twilight. She shook her empty glass at Twelve. “Would you mind?”

Twelve poured her drink how she likes it. Two ice cubes and a third the way full of vodka with just a splash of orange juice. Then, she sunk back into the comfort of the plush sofa.

“How’d it feel?” Amelia asked. “When you woke up and just knew all that shit? Language, history, all of it from a code they copied from my mind. It took me thirty years to learn it, and you got it all in a day.”

Twelve mulled for a moment, and then answered honestly.

“It felt good at first. Then, it felt bad. The scientists, not Darren, they poked and prodded me. They stuck me with needles. I was strapped down to the table and they never talked to me and they covered my mouth if I asked questions and when I screamed.”

Amelia had a fluidity that Twelve did not share, so she was enticed by her superior’s movements. Amelia moved her glass to her lips, and with her free hand brushed back a strand of loose hair. She pressed the graphene laded wood of the couch’s arm to engage her messages. Everything was covered in graphene. Everything was connected to the network. She flipped absent-mindedly through her junk mail. Twelve lacked fluidity. She was graceless and progressed with harsh, unaccustomed movements. While watching her superior stare into the web, she was overcome by gratitude for the simple freedom to speak uncandidly, a freedom she didn’t feel with anyone else. Amelia hadn’t fully acclimated to her clone’s naivete, but she preferred frankness even if she wasn’t sure how to respond to it. She looked at her clone with questions unasked in her troubled blue eyes.

Quality moments are fleeting, and the good ones can be swept away with a flood of hot temper. Amelia slapped her wine glass from the couch’s edge, and when Twelve stood to pick it up, Amelia caught her wrist and her grip was tight and cold.

“I can do it myself.” She snapped.

Darren appeared in the archway.

“What are you doing to her?” He shouted.

Neither Twelve or Amelia knew how long he’d stood there. He’d forgotten his lab coat and a pile of folders in his office and returned home to grab them.

“I spilled my drink.” Amelia mumbled. She leaned forward to pick up the broken glass, but was encumbered by her leg and the heaviness of the encasement. The round robotic mop appeared and gently pushed the glass aside, settled over the spill, and silently cleaned it before heading back to its charging station across the room. Twelve watched it longingly, wishing to be that small, that basic and dutiful. The broom was engaged somewhere else in the home, so it didn’t so quickly appear.

“You wouldn’t constantly knock things over if you weren’t so drunk all the time.” Darren criticized.

He grabbed a waste basket, and rushed across the room to clean up the glass. Amelia gestured for her wheelchair and it slowly rolled to her side. With Twelve’s help, she was hoisted into it. At the integrated wine cabinet, she pulled a bottle of red. From the cupboard, she produced two glasses.

“I have to work, Amelia. I don’t have time for this.”

“It’s not for you.” She said. She handed Twelve one of the glasses to hold it steady for a pour.

“It’s for Twelve. She needs to lighten up, and I need to know just what you chose to include in her and what you thought she was too good for. Loose lips sink ships, and I’d rather like to see your ship crumbled.”

The glass filled and bubbled beautifully. It smelled like red currant and plum with a hint of olive, and Twelve imagined she was there when the Italian vintner bottled it. She set it on the coffee table in front of her, rather than drink its contents in front of Darren.

“Drink ith.” Amelia commanded.

Her speech was slurred. Twelve wondered if she did disobey Darren and drink the red nectar, would she sound like Amelia? How much would it take to get her drunk and change her speech patterns? She shook her head. No. Non-verbal response was the most effective conditional response she could think of for a situation she’d not been prepared to find herself in. Non-verbal was the best way to avoid confrontation. She looked for approval from Darren who wasn’t looking at her. He was scowling at Amelia, who was looking at her and pressuring her with an intense stare. Amelia pushed the cup toward the table’s edge, threatening to push it off if Twelve didn’t pick it up. As it balanced on the edge threatening to fall over, Twelve reflexively caught it stunning her superiors into a meditative silence.

“I didn’t expect that.” Amelia said, breaking the silence. “Clearly, you’ve been imbued with quite a few skills I don’t have, and none of what Darren would consider the ugliness of my personality.”

Twelve didn’t dare admit to being entertained by this outburst. There was something about the exchange that dared her to join in on the chaos. She was tempted to drink the wine, but wouldn’t complicate things further. At least, not with Darren present. Amelia was so beautifully complicated. She’d seen and done things that had created a volatile, bi-polar individual. She was, in every way, unique. A grown woman, fully-formed, hot-tempered, and strong willed. Twelve admired and feared her.

“She can’t have that.” Darren screamed. He snatched the glass from Twelve’s hands.

“Oh, piss on it.” Amelia said. “She can have a little wine. It won’t kill her. Besides, she’s mine. My studio paid you to make her for me. If you spent less time wasting money on your pet projects, I could afford to buy one for you. Then, you’d have a clone of your own to control.”

Automated response, category Unlawful Acts.

“According to code e619, clones are not allowed to imbibe alcohol.” Twelve said. “If I drink it, Amelia… If I drink it, they’ll send me back.”

She didn’t want to overstep, but she had to say it. Darren was watching. He and the others had made it very clear what would happen if she disobeyed their rules. She’d be returned to the factory where she wouldn’t survive. They’d harvest her organs, or consider her tainted and throw her skin and all into an incinerator. If not, she’d find a way to kill herself.

“It quotes the law again.” Amelia slurred. A trickle of the sweetly fragrant wine dribbled down her lip. “More for me. Give it here. I’ll drink it gladly.”

Darren passed her the glass by its stem, and she swallowed it down in two gulps and then proceeded to lightly sip her own glass. Darren did not leave despite Twelve’s deep hope that he would. His brow furrowed and he stared at his wife with a brutal, intense hostility. He said nothing. Twelve had been conditioned to remove herself from family dramas whenever possible, and the discussion had seemed exhausted.

“May I be excused?” She asked.

“No, you may not.” Amelia barked.

Twelve moved to a small chair in the corner of the room, closest to the windows which overlooked the driveway. She did her best to look small.

“Why don’t you go, Darren?” Amelia asked, condescendingly.

“I’m not sure I should leave you alone with her.” He answered.

The anger melted off him, leaving his complexion pale and his posture defeated.

“I do have to get back.” He said. “Will you be good while I’m gone?”

“No, I won’t.” She fired back.

“Go to bed, Twelve.” He barked. And, she went to bed because she had to. Without the medicinal apparatus spilling its contents into her, she fell asleep unable to distinguish between their raised voices, but hearing their shouting nonetheless.

She can feel her body. The blanket wrapped around her and the soft goose down pillow beneath her head. She can hear the non-working apparatus gently humming away barely audible, but it was there. Why then was she somewhere else? Somehow awake in a dream that felt not at all dreamlike. It felt more like snooping on a stranger’s consciousness.