A cold thought, there and gone like the calm Elan had clawed out of all his manic planning. Liabilities are chips to play when they belong to other people; disposed of -- much like the pawns that others are -- when they're recognized in oneself. Therein lies the harm in Elan's question: What's wrong?
Peil must have taken Four to be a liability for him -- and after today they might have proof of it, a hundred times over.
That thought's cold, too, and leaves Elan feeling cold himself -- an effect of how he's sweat through his clothing, of the air that recirculates throughout the room. His paranoia supplies the rest before he can ask himself if it's true: They've had access to the messages on Four's side, surely; they knew he wouldn't throw away Four's things, even if they might not have known which object to tamper with until he'd put in that stupid request to modify the diploma... How had Elan never thought to wonder -- check! -- if they'd installed cameras in his clones' rooms? They've heard everything, seen everything, are still watching now, and it'll be game over if he doesn't --
-- Four's head falls on his shoulder. Elan's become so tense that he twitches slightly when he feels its weight, withdraws the fingers he'd all but forgotten were touching Four's hand. Instinctively, he raises his head to scan the ceiling, finds nothing; glances at the walls and can't discern anything there that could glance back. No, he thinks with a sigh. Peil would never dream that Elan Ceres could treat its products as something other than commodities or playthings, because Peil belongs to the same world his parents do. Its own artificial intelligence attests to that fact: How could the less capable minds of Peil have possibly imagined Elan in a situation not even he had anticipated?
In spite of himself, Elan pities his copy. In spite of himself, he resents Four with a persistence that owes itself to some heady mixture of frustration at Four's weakness and disappointment in Four's obstinance about letting himself die as if nothing matters to him -- a failing Elan takes personally because it's so obviously untrue. In spite of himself, he wants Four lucid, ready, available, because he doesn't want to do this alone --
... Ah.
-- and, yes, he's tricked himself into thinking their cont(r)act is something like friendship, company. Tricked, because it wouldn't -- couldn't -- make sense if it were otherwise. It's all vanity on Elan's side, a vanity that explains everything.
Go on, then. Tell him what to do.
An echo from his training, and one that -- bores him; the peace it brings nothing like the one he'd felt after his body had worked through the poison and he'd gazed at Four's face, so still. Checking an inconvenient train of thought before it leaves the proverbial station is the nail in Elan's coffin. He finds himself drained from the way his emotions have kept pace with his frenetic scheming as much as from the physical strain of having survived an assassination attempt, aches to close his eyes. It's not like he can order the permet to stop ravaging Four, anyway, and -- well, he doesn't want to see it.
He scoots away, barely suppressing a shiver as he lays down on the metallic floor. It's really hitting him now that he's stopped thinking: Dull pain throughout his abdomen; that pounding sensation in his head; the knot in his throat. Elan feels that he should say, do something --
(You don't even take anything -- not even when his forehead accidentally touches another's shoulder. You have no idea how lucky you are -- that his own defenses revolt against him, even with mixed success.)
-- and he doesn't, other than to lay an arm across his face. ]
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A cold thought, there and gone like the calm Elan had clawed out of all his manic planning. Liabilities are chips to play when they belong to other people; disposed of -- much like the pawns that others are -- when they're recognized in oneself. Therein lies the harm in Elan's question: What's wrong?
Peil must have taken Four to be a liability for him -- and after today they might have proof of it, a hundred times over.
That thought's cold, too, and leaves Elan feeling cold himself -- an effect of how he's sweat through his clothing, of the air that recirculates throughout the room. His paranoia supplies the rest before he can ask himself if it's true: They've had access to the messages on Four's side, surely; they knew he wouldn't throw away Four's things, even if they might not have known which object to tamper with until he'd put in that stupid request to modify the diploma... How had Elan never thought to wonder -- check! -- if they'd installed cameras in his clones' rooms? They've heard everything, seen everything, are still watching now, and it'll be game over if he doesn't --
-- Four's head falls on his shoulder. Elan's become so tense that he twitches slightly when he feels its weight, withdraws the fingers he'd all but forgotten were touching Four's hand. Instinctively, he raises his head to scan the ceiling, finds nothing; glances at the walls and can't discern anything there that could glance back. No, he thinks with a sigh. Peil would never dream that Elan Ceres could treat its products as something other than commodities or playthings, because Peil belongs to the same world his parents do. Its own artificial intelligence attests to that fact: How could the less capable minds of Peil have possibly imagined Elan in a situation not even he had anticipated?
In spite of himself, Elan pities his copy. In spite of himself, he resents Four with a persistence that owes itself to some heady mixture of frustration at Four's weakness and disappointment in Four's obstinance about letting himself die as if nothing matters to him -- a failing Elan takes personally because it's so obviously untrue. In spite of himself, he wants Four lucid, ready, available, because he doesn't want to do this alone --
... Ah.
-- and, yes, he's tricked himself into thinking their cont(r)act is something like friendship, company. Tricked, because it wouldn't -- couldn't -- make sense if it were otherwise. It's all vanity on Elan's side, a vanity that explains everything.
Go on, then. Tell him what to do.
An echo from his training, and one that -- bores him; the peace it brings nothing like the one he'd felt after his body had worked through the poison and he'd gazed at Four's face, so still. Checking an inconvenient train of thought before it leaves the proverbial station is the nail in Elan's coffin. He finds himself drained from the way his emotions have kept pace with his frenetic scheming as much as from the physical strain of having survived an assassination attempt, aches to close his eyes. It's not like he can order the permet to stop ravaging Four, anyway, and -- well, he doesn't want to see it.
He scoots away, barely suppressing a shiver as he lays down on the metallic floor. It's really hitting him now that he's stopped thinking: Dull pain throughout his abdomen; that pounding sensation in his head; the knot in his throat. Elan feels that he should say, do something --
(You don't even take anything -- not even when his forehead accidentally touches another's shoulder. You have no idea how lucky you are -- that his own defenses revolt against him, even with mixed success.)
-- and he doesn't, other than to lay an arm across his face. ]