1 Chapter 1

The last thing Trace remembered clearly was

standing with the other inmates in line for breakfast. Then the

transport lurched, throwing the men into each other. As they

elbowed and shouldered themselves back into formation, the alarms

went off. Steel bars slid down over portals that showed nothing but

deep space. More bars locked over the doorways. Trace’s heart

pounded in his chest as he watched the exits being sealed off so

effectively. Around him, the other prisoners stared wide-eyed at

the doors and portals, thoughts of escape shining like sweat upon

their faces.

The ship rocked again as the power went out,

and the men tumbled together in the dark. Somewhere close by, a gun

went off, the report deafening in Trace’s ear. He threw himself

down to the cold metal floor, away from the others, and crawled

toward the faint red emergency lights he could see out in the hall.

Guards threatened to trample him—heavy boots crunched broken glass

just inches from his fingers. As he gained the safe darkness under

a nearby table, the transport trembled beneath him. It began as a

faint rumbling and slowly grew into spasms of terror. Steel

squealed and buckled and twisted, drowning out the cries of the

men, prisoner and guard alike. Trace was flung into the chairs

bolted beside the table, his heart in the back of his throat,

himself suffocating with fear.

The next thing he knew, he was running from

the smoldering wreck, legs unsteady as he laughed at the trees

around him. The air was pure and thin—such a welcome change from

the stale stench that had filled the prison transport. Beneath his

bare feet, the grass felt like freedom. He glanced over his

shoulder at the metal husk burning among the trees, the path it had

carved through the forest a dark wound in the lush landscape.

Flames licked along an ugly scar that stretched from the transport

back into the forest for miles.

Free, Trace thought with a laugh that

startled him into tripping over his own feet. He fell in a heap to

the ground, rolled onto his back, and stared at the blue depth

above him. Silver leaves rustled in unfelt breezes. Where am

I?he wondered, and then laughed again. Who cared? It wasn’t

the meadowfoam farm, that was for sure, and he didn’t have to go

back there ever again. He reached for the ID barcode sewn onto the

right sleeve of his prison jumpsuit and ripped until it tore,

rendering him unknown.

The faint smell of oil drifted toward him

from the transport. Trace pushed himself up, hands fisting in the

grass as he stood, and he took one last look around to make sure he

was alone. Others may still be alive inside the ship, digging their

way out of the wreckage, crawling through air ducts as he had to

escape, but Trace wouldn’t be waiting when they emerged. He was

free again, finally, after all this time. Free of the Kressl war

and the work farm, the guards, the other inmates, free. He

took a few staggering steps, then found his footing and raced into

the trees.

* * * *

A few miles away, at the loading dock of the

Delta-23 replicate gestation facility, Davin sat on his idling

speeder and waited for the order to move out. Around him, six other

men sat on speeders like his. Each face was a mirror image of his

own. Subtle physical differences existed between them, despite

shared DNA, but twenty-five years of seeing only Delta-23

replicates bored Davin. The scientists who pioneered replication

technology could speak convincingly of individual personalities

that differentiated one replicate from the next, but there was

still some unfathomable level of sameness, something that couldn’t

be studied or named, that made him long for something…else. Maybe

today he’d finally catch a glimpse of someone who wasn’t a

Delta-23, who didn’t have the same sandy hair or light amber eyes

as did he and everyone else at the facility, who didn’t sound like

him, who didn’t smile in the same generic way or have the same

facial expressions. Someone different.

“I heard it was a prison ship,” the replicate

beside him said. Davin kept his face turned away to avoid

conversation, but the other continued. “Bunch of fellows from the

work farm on Uttar heading for the front lines. About time they

start putting convicts to good use. Keep us out of the war for a

little longer, at least.”

Another replicate spoke up. Davin didn’t know

who it was, and didn’t bother to glance at the name embroidered on

the speaker’s jumpsuit to find out. “Kressl troops bombed the

receiving station at Orion last week. They’ll be here next. The

Consensus said there’s a reward for each guy we bring in today. I

bet it’s at least a thousand quod each.”

Not for the first time, Davin wondered why

none of the others were as excited as he was at the thought of

meeting a natural-born. They weren’t clones, true—each

replicate had his own likes and dislikes, his own thoughts, his own

feelings. They weren’t programmed into identical robots—they were

each living, breathing humans. So why did it seem that Davin was

the only one unhappy with the sameness that surrounded them? How

could they all besatisfiedwith just each other?

On a speeder not far away, their patrol

leader gave the signal to move, quelling further talk. Davin revved

his speeder and took off, tearing away from the others. The last

starship that fell from the sky had broken up on re-entry, killing

everyone inside, but this one only burned on the way down. Crews

already had the blaze under control and had rescued a few survivors

trapped inside, but some may have escaped. Their patrol was

supposed to bring them in. The reward was an added incentive, but

Davin didn’t care about the cash. What would the others say if they

knew he’d give that much and more just to find

someone—anyone—else?

* * * *

Every so often, Trace stopped running and

listened for sounds of pursuit, but he could hear nothing over the

rush of wind through the treetops above. He didn’t think he was

being followed, and soon he slowed his pace through the trees. He

kept the sun at his back, with no real direction in mind except

away. Eventually someone would come looking for the

transport—prison authorities most likely, or whoever monitored

space traffic on this planet—and even now emergency crews were

probably on their way to the crash site. Trace figured he’d stick

to the woods, stay on the move so no one picked him up, and keep an

eye out for any aircraft that might point him toward the nearest

spaceport and some way off this rock.