Amanita: Poison Shot

Chapter 27: He Wasn't Meant to Know

"But my son died during the BioBank attack," my father replied automatically. "The terrorist explosion killed him, right?"

I was getting paler. He wasn't meant to know.

"We are sorry for the confusion yesterday," the clone civil servant added wearily.

He must've not been thrilled to be in a degraded ghetto-like neighbourhood, apologising to a traditional human under the cold, acid rain late at night. He was only obeying orders, I guessed.

"Your son was rescued in time by the President's elite bodyguards, while the police were in charge of keeping order and rescuing the injured after the blast. Your son's absence was not duly notified due to the emergency, and therefore the agents who talked to you yesterday had not been informed about it. The priority of your son's evacuation was a direct order from the President, may he guide us with the guidance of Apollo, the Living God! Please accept our apologies."

I hated it when clones made such praises to their god, Apollo. It seemed to fuel their pride like gas on a fire. They didn't seem to mind being considered conceited.

My father did not respond although the civil servant remained silent, waiting for him to do say something.

"As I was telling you before, the President is grateful, Mr Peneus," the civil servant continued seriously. "Your son is a hero to him. That's why he wants to give you these flowers as a sign of gratitude." He paused briefly to cough in an affected manner behind his handkerchief.

A grimace of disapproval escaped him, probably because whenever it rained, our streets smelled of sewage, but he continued with all the formality he could muster.

"It is an honour to receive such a gift from the President. He doesn't usually do that. He is also pleased to give you this gold commemorative plaque to honour your son's collaborative spirit. Apollo has also been notified of your son's exemplary behaviour. He sends his regards and highest praises."

I became paler when he said that last bit. I was freaking out. My brother getting Apollo's special attention! He praised him, the clone civil servant had said. I wanted to throw up.

The civil servant immediately signalled one of the bodyguards behind him, whom I could not see fully, to hand over to my father a golden plaque, securely kept in a fancy wooden box. Then, the fat civil servant took the plaque from the bodyguard's hands, and he showed it to my father so he could see it and read the inscription.

I took a step to one side so that I could see it better. I refused to stay behind my father even though I was scared. I needed to see what was going on.

"Please, Mr Peneus, accept these gifts as a token of gratitude," the civil servant said not feeling it.

"My son isn't... wasn't... a collaborator," my father replied immediately and dryly before the civil servant could add anything else. His fists were clenched and his whole body was tense with ire burning deep inside him.

Being a collaborator was frowned upon. It was a pejorative word among us, traditional humans. It was a synonym for clone arse kisser, for traitor, for willing and tame underdog. Collaborators got better-paying jobs and better treatment even though they were traditional humans like us, only because they were willing to be disgustingly loyal to clones and their god, Apollo.

On top of that insult, Daniel had not given his organs voluntarily. He had been forced to die to save the President. A bouquet of red roses and a gold plaque to thank us for his collaboration was the greatest insult in the world. A spit on our faces.

In the meantime, you could tell the clones were enjoying it, watching you closely to see how you suffered and endured that insulting treatment for fear of reprisals. Thus, refusing those presents meant getting beaten up or killed right away.