‘Peace, Mon. Me Sábado ...' The words were dry like leaves, whistling from lips blotched with cancer scars. Sábado took a deep drag from the flame end of his cigar and paused to listen to sounds approaching down the darkened tunnel. Someone swore when they saw the burning candles.

‘Hey,’ Sábado looked direct at the gun. ‘You on or off?’

‘Off.’

‘Good.’ He glared at the Colt. ‘You make sure you stay that way, you hear me?’

If the Colt could have nodded, Pietro could have sworn it would have done. Instead the hiPower just gave a non-committal grunt and shut down completely, every diode winking out at once.

‘Okay,’ the man looked at Pietro, ‘you stand over there.’ He pointed to the back of the vault near the steps and Pietro felt the smoke clear from his head. ‘But you don’t try to leave.’

Keeping the lifeless Colt to his side, Pietro quietly toggled the ‘on’ button but the gun remained silent. Whatever the old man was doing it worked. Pietro stood where he was told.

Stiffly, as if bending hurt his back, Sábado stooped and turned off the Sanyo stack, ending the drums. But somehow the silence sounded twice as loud.

‘You,’ said the old man, only this time he was speaking to the crowd outside. ‘Make yourselves welcome to Sábado ...'

Spanish Phillipe came first, blinking at the slight light of the candles or maybe at the heavy smoke rising from the fire bowl on Sábado’s altar. Then the huge man saw Pietro and scowled, sudden anger blocking out his fear.

‘Stop.’

It was a single word and not even loud, but Sábado’s voice was enough to halt Phillipe in his tracks. Seeing the big man halt, everyone else behind him stopped too. Though only Phillipe clutched at his chest.

‘It’s the smoke,’ Sábado said, ‘sometimes it does that to you…’ The old man beckoned to the five or so men behind Phillipe and waited while they came in slowly. No one had any doubt what the small vault was being used for or what the old man was, even if they didn’t know him by sight or name.

Phillipe crossed himself and the old man nodded and crossed himself in turn, cigar stub still burning in his fingers as he did so. Then, without pausing he turned to the handful of tri-Ds on the makeshift altar and made a bow as stately as that of any courtier.

Pietro recognised Cold Blue Lies, who sang for the Family, a wizard called Pa with a snake knotted over his robe and the Little Princess who gazed out from under long lashes, a one-legged infant sleeping on her lap.

She had other names that one. The Huntress, the Chosen, and Mistress of the Mines. Which mines Pietro didn’t know but there were silver workings to the far south of Day Effé, so it was probably those.

The boy stopped gazing at the Mistress and realised everyone was looking at him, waiting for some answer. From the way a dark vein tugged at the edge of Phillipe’s heavy jaw, Pietro could tell the huge man thought he was refusing to answer the question.

‘Did you kill the patron?’ Sábado repeated patiently. His deep voice held no sense of judgement and his eyes were glazed as if looking inside himself. He was listening hard, but to what Pietro didn’t know.

Pietro nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘I told you.’

‘The boy kills the man, so you kill the boy… ?’ Sábado asked.

Phillipe nodded.

‘You think the boy knows this when he do it?’

Silence was the big man’s only answer.

‘Of course not,’ said Sábado and turned to the boy, one thin hand flipping sideways as if to introduce Pietro’s answer, which didn’t come easy and—in the end—didn’t come at all ...

‘Tell me,’ said Sábado, sucking on the stub of his cigar. ‘Tell me why...'

If Pietro could have done, he would. Anything and everything was better than standing there in the vault being watched by those eyes. Everyone was waiting for his answer but the boy didn’t have one. He wasn’t thinking about how to get away from there, because Pietro didn’t believe he would.

He wasn’t thinking at all.

Sábado nodded and stepped over to the boy. Age-mottled fingers reached for the neck of Pietro’s T-shirt and ripped, tearing the cheap cotton in two. There were no tell-tale trademarks on Pietro’s chest or back, no tattoos or subdermal barcodes, but Sábado didn’t need visible proof to know the obvious.

And confirmation would be there somewhere. If not in a trademark around one nipple or flash-burned to the inside of his thigh, then in the genome itself, clauses and sub-clauses, copyrights, patents and disclaimers of liability coded into the kid’s junk DNA.

‘I’m right… ?’ The old man looked at the boy. ‘You soulless?’

Pietro said nothing. Life had taught him that was usually safest.

‘Thought so,’ said Sábado sucking at his teeth in disgust. He took the boy’s hands in his own and held them, palms up looking at broken blisters and rough, not-quite-formed calluses. Pietro’s nails were broken too, one split so badly that half of it had peeled back like yellow shell.

Pietro hadn’t been coded to survive in the fields or work with dangerous chemicals in a factory, he had none of the protective augmentations the pro-clone movement boasted about.

‘A house clone?’ Sábado asked. He sounded sympathetic.

Pietro wanted to say that he hadn’t minded. Not back at the beginning. At Mr Rubenstein’s house he’d had his own bedroom and a tiny Matsui screen, even his own newsfeed to watch the novelas. Eating leftovers and scraps hadn’t offended him. Waking early to prepare breakfast had been a pleasure. He liked the big house when it was empty and quiet.

But then came the UN ruling. Indenturing clones was illegal. Or rather, it was illegal to indenture a clone that had been hatched and batched specifically for work. Non whole-body spares, surrogate children and medical use were exempt. Under the UN’s ruling you could own—that was, adopt—copies of yourself but not of anyone else, especially not of a mass-produced commercial model.

It turned out Mr Rubenstein hadn’t really owned Pietro at all, just leased him from a Korean employment agency in Santa Fe; that was what Mr Rubenstein told Pietro anyway. But when Pietro went to Santa Fe the company wasn’t there.

‘Here, take this…’ Sábado passed Pietro the wet stub of his cigar and the boy dragged smoke into his lungs, dimethyltryptamine swamping his nervous system. All Pietro felt was dizzy. The leaf was prime semillia, not synthetic but grown from seeds hand planted in fields outside Havana. Sábado was given one cigar a week from a Cuban cardiologist in his congregation.

‘Tell me everything,’ said the old man. So Pietro did. Starting with Mr Rubenstein sitting Pietro down at the big kitchen table with a glass of juice squeezed from fresh oranges.

Free to go turned out to mean had to go…And that was the end of Pietro’s world. He was free to starve and be driven across the Mexican border by American police only to be dumped back into the US by the Mexican authorities.

Only one time, the last time he got shunted, a fat police woman in San Antonio with pillows for breasts told him about leaseback. It wasn’t slavery and it certainly wasn’t restricted to clones but… She paused, looked thoughtful… clones were finding it very useful.

And so Pietro found himself finally owning identity papers, and owing the next twenty-five years of his life to Brazilian Baptists who subcontracted his housing and feed to an orphanage at Zampango that leased him to La Piscina. As stories went it wasn’t even that remarkable.

Pietro blinked away his tears and the vault was suddenly empty except for Sábado.

‘Wha’happen?’

The old man grinned, showing nicotine-stained teeth and two tiny vampire canines. The small screw-in kind the poor chose, not fold-back incisors that cost real credit.

‘They went, Mon. Back to that bar to finish the Cachaca. Time you go too.’ He nodded towards the stone steps. ‘You take care now, you hear?’