"I’m leaving home, after living unknown for so many years…."

Paul Richard Lennon Harrison adapted the TwenCen song to suit himself, but he sang quietly and deliberately off-key, just in case his great-uncle was watching the lobby monitors from the penthouse apartment twenty floors above him. Not that that was likely, given the way Mom and Great-Uncle Jack had been arguing when he snuck out. Why did Mom and Dad have to drag him here every year anyway? It was a waste of precious Earthside time. He could be auditioning for a holo instead of enduring Great-Uncle Jack’s hungry stare and lectures about why Paul should learn to play guitar and piano for World Music. He’d had enough, Paul thought as he left through the revolving door. He was an actor, not a musician; he’d already had several small parts in holos, plays, and musicals as a kid and teenager. Now that he was almost eighteen, Paul was running away to Holowood so he could act full time.

It was raining, a novel experience for him. He tilted his head and let the unprocessed water run down his face, then double-checked his carisak to make sure it was sealed. He didn’t care if his clothes got wet, but he didn’t want his electronics to get shorted out. He thought they’d be OK; his handheld and discs were secured in their own waterproof compartments. His precious set of autoholoprojectors – a two-part mesh for face and head, wristbands, fingernail decals, ankle straps, miscellaneous projectors for other parts of his body, and a neckband to control them all – was also protected in its own case. Paul had packed that at the bottom of his carisak, the better to resist the temptation to use it. He had his actor’s license for the AHPs, but if he used them, they would stand out on scans. He’d have better luck escaping his parents by keeping a low profile. If he was lucky, no one would remember his face.

At least they wouldn’t be able to call or trace him, Paul thought as he walked down the grayed-out street. His friend Scott had shown him how to make his parents’ incoming calls bounce while still allowing him to eavesdrop on them. By the time Mom and Dad figured out how to get around that, he ought to be flying towards Holowood. They would be angry, but they’d forgive him eventually; they always did.

The novelty of rain wore off as Paul’s clothes got soaked, and he stopped in a covered doorway to put on his jacket. Even with it on, he still felt chilled. Paul had always thought spring was supposed to be a warm season. Either he had his seasons mixed up, or else he’d been really spoiled by the Sagan’s controlled climate.

Thinking of the science spaceship was a mistake. Everyone he cared about lived there; how could he just leave? But how was he going to learn any more acting if he stayed? Scott, his pretty but unattainable sister Yvonne, and Paul’s sister Cass would take part in plays if he kept after them, but they didn’t have the drive – or talent – for acting that he had. If he wanted to get good enough to play Hamlet on stage, he had to learn from real, live, actors.

"Hey, kid, got any spare credits for an old man? I ain’t eaten in two days."

Paul turned to confront an old man pushing a shopping cart. The rain hadn’t removed his sour body odor or the stains from his mismatched clothing. Paul grimaced as the beggar thrust his head forward, looking first at Paul, then at the window behind him. The beggar suddenly grinned, exposing crooked yellow teeth.

"Come on, John, gimme some credits." The man switched to a whiny voice. "I know you can afford it."

"My name’s not John," Paul said, puzzled. "It’s Paul."

The beggar cackled. "Ha, you’re as funny as ever. I may be old and homeless, but I’m not senile. I still know the smart one from the cute one."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Beatles, John, your old group! See, there’s one of them TwenCen records of yours in the window."

Paul turned to look in the display window. He must have stopped in front of a collector’s store; a century’s worth of fads – Barbie dolls, a Rubik’s cube, Digimon trading cards – was strewn in the window. More merchandise was suspended by wires at eye height. A black-and-white piece of cardboard with a picture of four faces on it hung next to Paul. He stared at the face on the left, fascinated. Except for the TwenCen hairstyle and the older face, he could have posed for that image himself.

"Oh, that must be 3G. My great-great-granddad, on my mom’s side," he added at the beggar’s confused expression.

"No, that’s not your great-great-whatever, that’s you." The beggar shook his head decisively, as if that settled the matter. He pushed his threadbare ski cap back into place, then frowned. "Hey, ain’t you supposed to be dead? Like, a long, long, time, dead? What happened, were you born again?"

"No, just once." Paul turned back to stare at the ancient image of his ancestor; Mom never let him look at one. It was amazing how after four and five generations, both he and his mom still resembled John Lennon. If anything, he looked more like 3G than she did….

But maybe that wasn’t so surprising, when your parents were geneticists…

When they worked on a spaceship that routinely traveled through a wormhole to another, younger universe, one so young it was still TwenCen…

When they were part of a commercial effort to study all types of TwenCen DNA, from plants and animals to people…

Paul suddenly turned and pushed past the beggar, accidentally shoving his cart into the path of a Hispanic businesswoman entering data into her handheld. She uttered polyglot curses as her handheld fell in a puddle.

"Hey, John!" the beggar called after Paul. "Where’re my credits?"

Paul fumbled some metal credits from his pocket and flung them behind him, not watching if the beggar picked them up. He ran down the street to the subway station, unsure if he should continue his trip to Holowood or return to his parents and demand reassurance that they hadn’t had him gene-sculpted to look like 3G.

"For the millionth time, Uncle Jackass, we don’t know where Paul went," Joanna Lennon Harrison said. "If I did, I’d drag him back here and give him the thrashing of his life."

She crossed her arms as she glared at Jack, her head tilted upward. The Sagan traveled at subrelativistic speeds, so she wasn’t exempt from the aging process. Time had frosted her long, dark hair, given her a few wrinkles around the eyes, and added a few extra pounds to her hips and thighs. It didn’t matter; she still resembled Granddad so much just looking at her grieved Jack. A shame she refused to record music; she’d have done the family proud.

"I told you you should’ve implanted a subcutaneous tracer in him," he said. "He’s too valuable to lose."

"He’s a person, Jackass, not a walking money bag. There is a difference, y’know."

Putting on a fake Liverpudlian accent wasn’t going to save her, especially when she continually insisted on making his very name an insult. Jack forced himself to keep his hand away from his pocket.

Joanna’s husband George placed a hand on her shoulder. "I don’t think a tracer would have helped. Scott is good with electronics, and Paul probably talked him into sabotaging his cel. If he could do that, he would’ve figured out how to disable a tracer as well."

"The cels…why did he have to disable his cel? If he gets hurt or lost, he won’t be able to call for help. Oh my baby, my poor baby…." Joanna covered her face with her hands.

"That’ll do a lot of good, Joanna," Jack said. "Think, you two. You must have some idea of where he’s going. Does he have any Net friends he wanted to visit? Is there someplace he desperately wanted to go?"

Joanna and George looked at each other. "Holowood," they said simultaneously.

"Holowood? Isn’t he ever going to outgrow that acting bug and pay more attention to his music?"

"Doesn’t look like it," George said.

"Oh, he does sing at home and in musicals," Joanna added, "but he always says acting comes first." She made a visible effort to pull herself together. "Looks like we better check the airports. I’ll take JFK…"

"And I’ll take LaGuardia," Jack said. "George, you take Newark."

"That’s the farthest away."

"The boy is smart. He might figure that as his best chance for eluding us."

And it would put as much distance between Joanna and her husband as possible. Jack might as well take advantage of this opportunity.

Joanna had already whipped out her handheld, presumably to access departure schedules. She nodded in satisfaction. "E-mail me the instant you see him."

"Of course, Joanna." Jack put on a smile, then, while it still seemed natural, pulled her into an embrace. She stood stiffly as he patted her on the back. "Don’t worry, we’ll have Paul back soon."

She broke away. "Of course we will. Then I’ll lock him in his room for the rest of his life. You can use the car, George; I’ll hail a cab."

She left Jack’s office with long strides. George turned back to Jack and shrugged. "Your family motto should be, ‘You can always tell a Lennon, but you can’t tell them much.’ No offense meant, Jack."

"None taken. I learned long ago how determined she can be."

He’d never forget the day she’d returned from her mission to obtain DNA from a John Lennon in the TwenCen parallel universe. She’d taken it into her head that he’d mistreat the resulting child – as if Jack would have harmed a hair on his grandfather’s head. So she’d decided to claim the child, even donating her eggs and becoming the host mother. Jack hadn’t minded that; that had simplified matters and brought Paul into existence that much faster. But he still hadn’t forgiven her or her father for the way she’d convinced Ian to buy her shares in Golden Helix, one of the three partner companies who had sponsored the project. His own brother had turned against him! That had given her enough power to raise Paul herself, instead of turning him over to Jack for a proper upbringing. And since Jack could only see Paul once a year, his input was sadly minimal. No wonder Paul wanted to be an actor instead of a musician, as he was meant to be.

George had already left. Jack headed downstairs to the garage. Instead of taking one of the limos, he chose the "average" car: a dark-colored, ubiquitous model. He’d had it registered under Joanna’s name; a nice touch of irony, he thought. He slipped on a pair of thin gloves, then started the car and drove, not to LaGuardia, but to JFK.

No matter what else happened tonight, it was time for Joanna to play her final role in shaping Paul’s destiny. Despite Joanna’s fussing, she and Paul were close, just as Granddad had been to his mother Julia. When Julia had been killed, Granddad’s grief had found an outlet in his music.

If John’s clone was ever going to reach his potential, Joanna had to die.

Paul sat stiffly on the subway seat, staring straight ahead of him as his mother’s "New York rules of survival" reasserted themselves. He should have known better than to have talked to that crazy beggar. And he was crazy; mad beyond medication, no doubt. Yeah, Paul looked an awful lot like 3G, but then, so did Mom, and to a lesser extent, Great-Uncle Jack and his second cousins Jock and Evan. Even Cass had the Lennon nose, though otherwise she looked more like Dad. It was just a genetic coincidence Paul resembled 3G so closely.

And when Paul thought about it, he honestly couldn’t imagine his parents having his genes sculpted. Sure, his family was linked to the Beatles – his dad was named after one, and of course his mom was descended from another – but Mom always seemed embarrassed when strangers commented on her resemblance to 3G. "I’m not a bit like him," she always said, smiling as if she knew a secret.

Had Mom and Dad caught on to him yet? Paul took out his cel pik and tweaked his receiver to pick up Mom’s cel frequency. After a few minutes, it came in. There was a lot of background noise; she must be at one of the airports already. No wonder the damn TwenCen subway was so cheap; it ran slower than a fat Fundie in molasses. Still, this might work out for him. If he could figure out which airport she went to, then once she left, the coast would be clear for him. Paul glanced at the holo of the subway map on the car wall, trying to figure out exactly where he was so he could transfer if necessary.

"Hi, have you seen my son? Here’s a holo of him." There was a pause on the line. "He’s probably headed for Holowood…no? Well, thanks anyway."

Paul leaned back against the plastic seat and listened to his mother search for him.

Jack beeped at Joanna as she left the terminal, but he was surprised when she actually sprinted through the rain to the car. She must have thought he was someone else, for she looked disappointed when she saw him. "Did you finish with LaGuardia already?" she asked.

"I thought maybe we should go there together," he replied. "Maybe on the way we can reach a compromise about Paul’s future."

"I think Paul’s taken that matter into his own hands." Still Joanna got in. Jack suppressed a smile at how easy she was making this for him.

As Jack drove down the Van Wyck Expressway towards LaGuardia, he tried to figure out the best place to kill Joanna. He couldn’t do it in the car, of course; it would leave physical evidence. He wasn’t worried about DNA scans; he’d driven the car often enough while she was away to explain why his DNA was there. But if she struggled, or if he couldn’t do it cleanly, that might be harder to explain. For once, he wished there was construction on the Expressway; that would give him an excuse to detour into a dark street.

"So, what kind of compromise did you have in mind?" Joanna asked.

Jack kept his gaze focused ahead of him, on the traffic. "Well, since he’s been in a couple of musicals, maybe he could record some show tunes for World Music."

"You can ask him, but I doubt he’ll do it. If it’s not related to acting – or girls – he’s not interested. He doesn’t even want to travel on the Sagan anymore. Every year after our month of leave down here, I have to drag him back and listen to him complain about being constrained in a nutshell when he wants the world for a stage."

"So let him stay behind this year. He can live with me –"

"And while George and I are gone, you’ll try turning him into John, admit it. Hell, if he’d grown up with you, you’d have probably put him in the studio two years ago so you could get an album out of him for the Ed Sullivan centennial."

"It would have been perfect timing," Jack said. He passed several cars. "Speaking of timing, when are you going to tell him?"

Joanna bent over her handheld. "I don’t know. Soon, I guess. Once he starts attending a brick university here on Earth, he’ll figure it out on his own anyway."

Jack was silent for several minutes. After turning onto the Grand Central Parkway, he said, "You can’t keep him from his destiny forever, Joanna."

"I know." She sighed. "All children grow up sometime."

"That’s not what I meant."

"I know damn well what you meant! And you’re wrong, dead wrong. Don’t forget, all things must pass." Joanna waved a hand towards Flushing Meadow, where Shea Stadium had once stood before being torn down. "Paul may have John’s genes, but he’s not John, anymore than I ever was. He’s his own person."

"I’m surprised to hear a geneticist say that. The genes will tell, after all."

"Genes set the potential, but it’s up to the environment to determine how that potential is expressed. And I think George and I have done our best to give Paul a happy, secure environment." She sat back, a smug expression on her face.

"Well, as Ringo said, tomorrow never knows." Jack took the exit to LaGuardia. He could see the parking garages already. Tall, multi-storied structures, with plenty of dark, deserted levels….

Jack permitted himself a slight smile. Paul’s environment was about to change.

"What do you mean, I have John’s genes, Mom?" Paul asked as he exited the subway system and entered JFK. "We all do, except Dad. What’s so special about me?"

No answer, of course; Mom couldn’t hear him. Paul rubbed his chin as he stared at his faint reflection in the glass wall. His doubts suddenly returned; had his parents had his genes sculpted to be more like 3G’s, after all? Was that what Great-Uncle Jack had referred to? But why would Mom agree to something like that and then argue that he wasn’t 3G? Something was rotten, not just in Denmark, but here.

"Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see…"

Paul brushed away the smartad for VR equipment and stared at the neon-bright information holo without really seeing it. Maybe Holowood could manage without him for a little while longer; at least, until he learned whose genes he truly wore.

"There was a parking spot back there," Joanna said, turning her head and pointing. "And there’s another one. Why aren’t you taking them?"

"Too many cars around; I don’t want to get dinged." Jack’s hands tensed on the leather-bound steering wheel. She didn’t suspect anything, did she?

Apparently not. "I suppose," she agreed. "Have to admit I haven’t seen this car before, Uncle Jack. Though it does seem a bit – ordinary compared to your usual cars."

"Sometimes it’s useful to have an ordinary car." He descended another level.

After another two levels, Joanna asked, "Isn’t this remote enough? We’re not going to be here that long, after all."

Jack glanced around. There were a couple of cars parked on this level, but there was no sign of people – or, more importantly, electronic monitors. "Yeah, this’ll do."

He waited until they were both out of the car and had met by the trunk. "Well, Joanna, if you don’t like my driving, you can do it on the way back." He tossed the key towards her, deliberately aiming wide. It clinked on the concrete, a few feet away.

"Jackass," Joanna muttered. She turned and stooped to pick up the key.

Jack rushed her, grabbing her hair with one hand. He squatted behind her and yanked her head back to expose her throat. With his free hand, he pulled a laser scalpel from his pocket and clicked it on. The garage was so quiet he could hear the whine the instrument made.

"What the hell –" Joanna thrust her elbow back in a self-defensive move, but Jack dialed up the intensity of the laser beam and scored her. She let out a little cry and pulled her arm away. Wisps of smoke rose from her burnt sleeve. Jack decreased the laser setting and pulled Joanna’s head farther back, the better to train the crimson light on a blood vessel in her pale throat.

"Don’t move, Joanna, don’t scream, don’t use your cel," he whispered. "For Paul’s sake."

As he’d expected, her resistance died at the mention of her son’s name. Her lips trembled, but otherwise she was still. "You know where Paul is? Whatever kind of mind games you’re playing, Uncle Jackass, they’re not funny!"

"This isn’t a game, Joanna. It’s time for history to repeat itself."

Incredibly, she let out a sharp laugh. "Fuck it, Paul’s not John, and I’m not Julia." She fluttered her long, dark eyelashes, imitating John. "I know how you idolize John; how could you even think of hurting me, his great-granddaughter? You can’t be serious, Uncle Jackass –"

That damned nickname was the last straw. He dialed up the laser intensity and drew the beam across her throat. Her neck gaped open, exposing her trachea. The odor of burnt flesh overpowered the fruit fragrance of her shampoo. No blood flowed, though; the scalpel cauterized as it cut. He could truthfully say he hadn’t spilled a drop of her blood.

Joanna abruptly relaxed. Her skin paled, making her dark eyes appear even darker as they glassed over. Jack let her body come gently to rest on the concrete.

"I’m willing to sacrifice John Lennon’s great-granddaughter, if that’s what it takes to bring out the greatness in his clone," Jack whispered to her. "So long, Joanna. You’ll never call me a jackass again."

He silenced her cel, then quickly looted her credits and sparse jewelry to make her murder appear to be a robbery gone bad. If possible, he’d plant them by a street person. Then, leaving the car, he left to make to make his way home as unobtrusively as possible.

"Sacrifice John Lennon’s great-granddaughter…to bring out the greatness in his clone?" Paul whispered the nightmarish words that were screaming in his head. "Mom…me? I’m 3G’s clone?" He shivered, suddenly cold; black spots floated before his eyes. He staggered into several human obstacles before collapsing to the floor. It was too much effort to rise, so he just lay there and stared at the people gathering around him.

He had to talk to Mom; she would set this straight. He struggled to make his trembling hands restore the cel’s functions. "Mom! Mom! Are you there? Please say something! I’ll come home; I’ll be good! I promise you I’ll be good!" Paul put a hand over the ear where his cel receiver nestled in his ear canal, but though he strained to listen, he couldn’t hear Mom’s cel answer his.

This couldn’t be real, he told himself; this was like something out of a bad holo. Yeah, Mom and Great-Uncle Jack didn’t like each other, but that didn’t mean Great-Uncle Jack would … hurt her. That seemed as likely as Paul being his ancestor’s clone. But the beggar had said he was 3G…. Paul raised his head and screamed. "MOTHER! MOM!"

"Calm down, son." A man in a dark blue uniform put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. "What’s wrong? Can you tell me who you are?"

Paul stared at him. "Mom…Jackass…3G." How could he make him understand? "I’m supposed to be 3G, but I’m not. Please tell me I’m not…"

The man looked at Paul’s ID, led him to a small room, made him lay down, and covered him with a blanket. Paul stared blankly ahead, listening to his great-uncle’s and mother’s final conversation cycling in his head, until his tear-faced dad finally came to claim him.

Paul tugged the collar of his new black suit, wishing he wasn’t here. The wool scratched him like a hairshirt, and his relatives stared at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. When he’d greeted them earlier, they hadn’t been able to look him in the face or say more than a few words to him. Paul wondered what – or who – they saw in his features that they couldn’t face. He wished he hadn’t left his AHPs in the car; he wanted to pretend he was someone else. At least Cass, as the official holographer for family events, had an excuse for not mingling. She drifted around the room, recording people and muttering into her mouthpiece. As she approached their mother’s casket, covered with flowers, Paul looked away. He hadn’t been able to view her body, and every time he remembered why they were here, he wanted to throw up.

As Great-Uncle Jack preceded his branch of the family into the parlor, Paul pressed himself into the corner. He wished he could disappear into the heavy, red-and-gold wallpaper. He’d been too stunned to function the last two days, but he remembered far too well what he had overheard, even though he still didn’t want to believe it. He hadn’t even told anyone. Would Dad believe him? And if he did, what would happen? Paul was no fool; he knew Great-Uncle Jack was rich enough to buy justice, especially when the only evidence against him was what Paul had overheard. Besides, if Paul stepped forward with his testimony, everyone would know it was his fault. A fear deeper than any stage fright kept him silent.

Great-Uncle Jack homed in on Paul like a bomb locked onto its target. Even his black clothing and solemn expression couldn’t make him appear to be mourning Paul’s mom. What was wrong with everyone, Paul wondered. Why couldn’t they see him for what he really was?

Great-Uncle Jack’s lips moved for a couple of seconds before he actually spoke; he always seemed to have a hard time saying Paul’s name. "Paul. How terrible this must be for you. I’m sure you must want to go hide in a corner and scream your heart out."

"I think you’re confusing me with 3G," Paul said as levelly as he could. "Didn’t he do something like that?"

"Of course he did. Didn’t your mother teach you anything about him?"

Paul swallowed. "Mom was more interested in the here and now, not obsolete TwenCen stuff like him."

Great-Uncle Jack moved in closer. "I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but your mother was wrong about that. The past isn’t past; it’s still here, part of us all. Especially you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you….Paul." Great-Uncle Jack extended his hand and put on a friendly-seeming smile. "Stay behind with me this year," he said. "It’s obvious the Sagan doesn’t offer anything for you anymore. Besides, I thought you wanted to study acting. I can help you apply to acting schools, or, if you’d rather, I could probably put you in touch with an agent right away."

A few days ago Paul would have agreed without hesitation, but now acting didn’t seem so important anymore. And although he felt like a baby for wanting to go hide on the Sagan, he didn’t feel like facing the world right now. He wanted to stay home, with his father, sister, and friends. Even if he did stay on Earth, he’d rather sleep in the subway than live with the smiling, damnèd villain.

Paul faced his great-uncle. "I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll wait until next year. I have to finish my pre-University courses anyway."

"You don’t need academics for what you’re meant to do." Great-Uncle Jack’s eyes had a strange gleam. "Granddad didn’t."

Wouldn’t his great-uncle ever leave him alone? "I’m not 3G!" Paul cried out. His dad and granddad looked over and headed towards Paul. Paul’s dad grabbed Scott by the arm and dragged him along.

Great-Uncle Jack leaned closer to Paul, close enough for him to smell his breath mint and count the hairs in his goatee. "You’re more like Granddad than anyone here," he whispered, "more so than your great-grandpa Sean, certainly more than me." He frowned briefly. "You could BE him."

Oh God, was it really true that he was John Lennon’s clone? Paul didn’t want to hear it, especially from his great-uncle. "Yeah? And you could smile, and smile, and be a villain!"

Great-Uncle Jack blinked twice, and his expression grew strained, but otherwise he didn’t react. Paul suddenly realized how silent the room was. All the conversation had stopped; the only other sound was "All Things Must Pass" being played over the speakers mounted in the ceiling corners. Everyone was staring at them, and Cass had her holorecorder aimed at them.

Paul’s dad finally reached them. He ignored Great-Uncle Jack and took Paul’s arm with his free hand. "Paul, a word with you?" Without waiting for a response, he tugged Paul and Scott towards the hallway. Paul went willingly; anything, even a scolding, was better than another moment with Great-Uncle Jack.

"Is this about the cel, Uncle George?" Scott asked once they were alone in the hallway. His normally dark complexion looked ashen. "I didn’t mean to cause any problems; I only showed Paul how to sabotage it because he asked me to."

"Thanks a lot, Scott," Paul said bitterly.

"Never mind the cel; it’s not important anymore. Right now, we have to protect Paul." Paul’s dad turned to him. "You brought your set of AHPs with you, right?"

Paul nodded.

"I know that set is only for one person, but Scott, can you jury-rig it to make it serve two?"

Scott frowned. "There are a few spare parts with it. I can make them work, but they don’t have much memory. You won’t get good detail."

"We don’t need good detail, just enough to fool someone at a distance." Paul’s dad gave him the car keys. "Paul, hide your AHPs in the men’s room. After the service, you and Scott go in there and switch identities."

Paul grinned. He’d always been a good mimic. Even without the AHPs, he could do Scott’s voice and gestures reasonably well. With the AHPs, he could give himself Scott’s black, curly hair; dark skin; and other features. He could even compensate somewhat for being taller and less muscular than Scott was.

"Scott, you’ll come with me and pretend to be Paul. I know you can’t do his voice as well as he can yours, so you’ll have to stay silent. Paul, go straight back to the Sagan with Aunt Lizabeth, Aunt Olivia, and Yvonne. If, God forbid, anything happens en route, don’t go with anyone you don’t know. Hell, don’t go with anyone except your aunts. Especially don’t go with anyone from your great-uncle."

"But I told him I don’t want to stay with him!"

Paul’s dad sighed. "He might not take no for an answer."

"He’s really creeping me out this time, Dad. He told me I could be 3G. He’s exaggerating, isn’t he?"

His dad put a hand on his shoulder. Paul noticed the streaks of red in the white’s of his father’s eyes. "I’ll explain everything once we’re safe on the Sagan, Paul."

Paul didn’t like the sound of that. That implied there was something to explain. But he didn’t want to end up an unwilling guest of his great-uncle. He hid the AHPs, then went to sit with his dad and Cass.

"Granddad, am I 3G’s clone?" Paul demanded. He brought his handheld to face level and stared at Granddad’s holo. From the corner of his eye, Paul could see the lovely Yvonne, sitting as far away from him as she could and staring at her own handheld. Under normal circumstances, he’d covertly admire her china-smooth complexion and the straight fall of her blonde hair. He’d give anything to make her his leading lady, even if she preferred analyzing emotions to expressing them. Right now, though, everything besides his identity crisis was trivial.

"I think you should talk to your father about that –"

"It is true then! God!" Paul threw his handheld against the back of Aunt Lizabeth’s seat, making her swear too. The durable handheld landed on the floor; his grandfather’s image shook but quickly steadied. "‘O that this too too sullied flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself in a dew!’"

He unsnapped one of the wristbands and rubbed the decals from his fingernails, revealing a pale, thin hand under the holo of a dark one. He’d joked occasionally that his AHPs made him a liar by changing his appearance. He hadn’t realized the lies had gone much deeper than that. Everything about him was a lie, from his parentage down the line. No wonder he wanted to be an actor so much; he’d been meant to play someone else from the moment he was born. But he’d been given no choice in the casting, and he’d never be able to remove the costume of his flesh. At least that would make everyone else happy, Paul thought bitterly. They didn’t love him for being himself, anyway; they just wanted him to play his ancestor for the rest of his life.

"So, when am I supposed to meet Paul McCartney’s clone?" he asked his granddad. "I don’t suppose Scott’s him in disguise. Hell, I’m amazed you let me get this far without putting me through ‘how to be your original’ training, like the Elvii Twins Cass is gaga over."

"There are no other Beatle clones, Paul. Their families wouldn’t stand for it."

"How lucky for me our family feels differently," Paul said sarcastically.

"Believe it or not, most of us don’t expect or want you to be John. Only Jack does."

Aunt Olivia rounded a curve without slowing down. Paul braced himself against the car door. "Great-Uncle Jack? Is that why he wanted me to stay in New York this time?"

"Yeah. And there’s something else…." Granddad mimed sticking a earpiece into his ear, then fell silent until Paul complied and routed all sound through it so the others couldn’t hear. "Jack’s always been obsessed with our granddad, Paul. When we were kids, he wanted to be just like John, but his only album got worse reviews than Grandma Yoko’s work. Then he decided that if he couldn’t be Granddad, he’d mold one of us into being him. That didn’t work either, obviously; all he did was drive a wedge between your mother and me. Would you believe he didn’t want her to go into science, so he wouldn’t pay her college tuition? She blamed me, and I was so blind I didn’t even realize what was going on. All those wasted years, never to return…." Granddad blinked furiously. "Anyway, once the Hawking Wormhole opened up into the alternate TwenCen universe, it was inevitable that he try something like this. He wanted to be the one to raise you, but Jo and I outmaneuvered him. But now that she’s gone, the only thing that protects you from him is the Sagan. Once you get back to the ship, Paul, don’t leave it for any reason. Jack may be my brother, but his obsession with Granddad scares me. If he can snare you, there’s no telling what he’ll do."

Despite the sunlight heating the car window, Paul shivered. The words his great-uncle had whispered after he had killed Mom returned to haunt Paul: "I’ll sacrifice John Lennon’s great-granddaughter, if that’s what it takes to bring out the greatness in his clone." How was killing his mother supposed to make him into 3G? Paul didn’t quite understand that, but he didn’t have to. He understood the implications of it far too well: directly or indirectly, he was responsible for his mother’s death.

Paul hung his head. This was a far greater burden than Hamlet had to bear. And Paul was an unnatural creation; he shouldn’t have been, he shouldn’t have been….

"Paul?" Aunt Olivia said. "We’re almost home. Looks like they’re being stricter than usual about security today, so you’d better turn off the AHPs. You don’t need them anymore anyway."

"Yeah," he replied. To his granddad, he said, "I gotta go," and disconnected. He removed the other wristband and decals, his headpiece, and the neckband, then secured them in their case and placed that in his carisak.

Security really was tight around the shuttle base; cars and trucks had come to a standstill outside the laser-secured fence. With a few mumbled curses, Aunt Olivia stopped their car to wait. Paul reached forward and tapped her shoulder. "You and Aunt Lizabeth knew about me all along, didn’t you? You had to; you were on the Sagan before Mom was, and you’ve been friends forever."

"We did." Aunt Olivia turned her head to look at Paul. Scott had her mouth but not her broad nose. "She asked us not to say anything, even to Scott or Yvonne. We didn’t want them to treat you differently."

Yvonne finally looked straight at Paul; a gold cross glittered at her throat. "Grandma and Grandpa say rock and roll is the Devil’s music. It’s bad enough you’re descended from a rock musician – especially Lennon – but if they knew you were his clone, they’d probably throw holy water on you to see if you melt."

Paul hunched over at her words. Yvonne always sounded like a Fundie after visiting her grandparents. He glanced sideways at her. "But do you believe that?"

She stared at him as if she wasn’t sure.

Aunt Lizabeth shook her head. "I swear, my parents get more conservative every year. They don’t like my wife –" she glanced at Aunt Olivia – "They don’t like my son, they try to turn my daughter into a Fundie…I swear that’s the last time I let them take you when we’re on Earth."

Yvonne flushed. At least she couldn’t complain about his being a clone, Paul thought, since Aunt Lizabeth had been artificially inseminated with her. "Well, if Paul’s the clone of his famous ancestor, no wonder he’s such a Don Juan." She turned away from Paul, then glanced at him over her shoulder. "Maybe you’ll impress the travelers by being John Lennon’s clone, but you won’t impress me. I won’t be another mark on your bedpost!"

"Some psychiatrist you’ll make. You can’t even face your own feelings." Paul reached over and laid his hand on her soft suede skirt, right on her thigh. "When will you realize you find me irresistible?"

"I do not!" She slammed her handheld on his hand. Paul cradled his throbbing hand with the other and gave Yvonne his best "woe is me" expression. Chin held high, she turned away, as beautiful as ever.

Aunt Lizabeth sighed. "I’d better have Ryan expedite us through security, before Yvonne kills Paul," she said, pulling the pieces of her cel out of her purse. "We’ll never be able to explain that one to George."

Ryan was too busy to come right away; it was another twenty minutes before they finally pulled up to another, unfamiliar guard’s station. The heavyset, balding man scrutinized his aunts’ and Yvonne’s IDs before handing them back, sneering slightly as he did so. His gray eyes widened as he examined Paul’s ID, and he grinned. "Paul Richard Lennon Harrison, eh? You’re not a part of this so-called family."

Aunt Olivia shook her finger at the guard. "We’re close friends of his family, and Paul’s listed on the Sagan’s roster. He was born on her."

"He’s been with her much longer than you have," Aunt Lizabeth added.

The guard ignored them. "Step out of the car, son, and let me see what you have in your carisak." Paul reluctantly obeyed. The guard immediately pulled out Paul’s set of AHPs, as if he had expected to find them. "Autoholoprojectors? What are you doing with those?"

"I’m an actor." Paul fumbled for his license.

"Oh, yeah? I’ve never seen you in any holos."

"You haven’t been looking closely enough. Someday I’ll be the star."

"Sure, probably on one of them crime-fighting holos as a defendant. Let’s see, a juvenile male traveling with a dykey family instead of his parents and possessing an unauthorized set of AHPs –"

"They are authorized! Here’s my license!" Paul held it in front of the guard’s face, but he barely glanced at it.

"I’m sure that’s a fake," he said, looking smug. "Looks like I better take you away for questioning."

"Questioning! I didn’t do anything." Nothing the guard could charge him for, anyway.

"He’s not going anywhere without us," Aunt Olivia said, and Aunt Lizabeth furiously whispered into her cel. Aunt Olivia argued with the guard for a few more minutes before Ryan’s blue hemicar appeared behind the gate. "Brandon!" he called. "Let them through! They’re legit!"

"But I was told –"

"I don’t care who told you what, you’re holding everyone up! Now give Paul back his things and let them through before I fire you now!"

Scowling, Brandon obeyed and moved on to the next car. Paul checked his AHPs while Ryan circled and stopped next to Aunt Lizabeth’s window. "Everybody all right?"

"We’re fine, thanks to you." She smiled at him. "When’s the next shuttle leaving? We really need to get back to the Sagan right away."

Ryan glanced down at his handheld. "Five minutes. It’s a cargo shuttle, though."

"We can deal with that. Do you have time to escort us there?"

Ryan grinned. "Sure, with the way Olivia drives."

Paul scrambled back into the car, and in three and a half minutes, they were wedging themselves between stacks of boxes in the shuttle. "It’s cold in here," Yvonne said, rubbing her bare arms. Wordlessly, Paul offered her his suit jacket. She smiled her thanks, but even her smile couldn’t warm him. He sat on the chilled floor and stared at the fan in the ceiling. Nothing was going the way he thought it would. Instead of being on his way to Holowood, he was heading back to the confining Sagan and another dull, yearlong round trip to the Hawking Wormhole. Only on this trip, he had to deal not only with his mom being murdered, but with his genes being those of his famous ancestor, and his mom being murdered to make him by some mysterious process into said famous ancestor. Wonderful. This trip ought to be the best he’d ever had.

"What’s so great about John Lennon anyway, that Great-Uncle Jack wants him back so much?" he asked. "I mean, he was obviously handsome, and he wrote some nice songs and left us a bunch of money, but if that was all there was to him, I don’t see why he rates all this fuss."

The bead in Aunt Olivia’s graying braids clacked loudly as she shook her head. "We told your mother you had to know about John, but she wouldn’t listen."

"Maybe she was overcompensating," Yvonne said.

"She did say once she spent her childhood in his shadow," Aunt Lizabeth said. "George figured you’d have to learn about him eventually, Paul. That’s why he asked us to hide a stack of information about him from your mother, so you’d have it when you needed it. I think when we get back on board, we’ll give it to you. There’s not much point in hiding it any longer."

"Thanks," Paul said. Maybe somewhere in that TwenCen information was the key to his future.

The rest of the trip passed without incident, and soon they were back in the familiar, blue-and-orange halls of the Sagan. Paul followed Yvonne and his aunts back to their suite, where they gave him several discs and a few brittle paper books. "Be extra careful with those," Aunt Lizabeth said. "They’re valuable."

"More valuable than I am?" Paul asked bitterly. "I’m the ultimate Lennon collectible, you know."

She didn’t answer.

Paul’s father and sister weren’t back yet, but Cass had e-mailed him saying they’d made a detour and would be back late. Paul dumped the discs and books on his unmade bed, then fetched a stale sandwich from the mess hall. While he picked at it, he flipped through the books, then browsed through the discs. He stared at every image of 3G, both 2-D ones and vague holos rendered from TwenCen 2-D photos. Some of the images looked rather strange, but others, especially the early ones, were ones he could have posed for himself.

He found a holo about 3G’s life and played it in his handheld, staring at it without really seeing it. The phrase "John’s mother was killed when he was seventeen" drew his attention. Was that why his mom had been killed, to make his life parallel his ancestor’s? If so, that had to be the most evil thing he could think of.

Footsteps and voices sounded from the main room of the family suite. Paul tensed. Underneath him, the Sagan’s engines rumbled as she left orbit. Paul crossed the room and stood by the door, waiting. He opened it before his dad could knock twice.

Paul stared at the shadows under his father’s eyes. Had all those lines appeared just in the last few days, or had they been there all along without Paul noticing them? With one hand, his dad loosened his DNA-patterned tie. He held a disc and an obsolete handheld in his other hand. "Ian e-mailed me that you figured it out," he said quietly.

"It only took me my whole life," Paul said. "I should have realized it earlier from the way Great-Uncle Jack treated me."

His father leaned against the doorframe. "I suppose you have a lot of questions."

"Yeah." Paul’s throat felt like it was swollen shut, but somehow he forced the words out. "Why did you lie to me?"

"Lie? We never lied to you, Paul. Your mother was a horrible liar; she couldn’t even convince you Santa Claus existed. We just never told you the whole truth."

"Well, you sure left out a lot of important information." Paul took a few steps away from his father, then whirled. "Like, you’re not my father."

"Of course I’m your father, Paul!" He took a few steps forward. "I’m the one who raised you, and that’s what matters. Nothing will ever change that. You’ll always be my good luck charm."

"You’re just saying that. You don’t love me for me; you just wanted him back –"

"Paul!" Dad reached over and shook him, pressing the handheld against his shoulder. "Now that’s not true, and you know it! If we really felt that way, we’d have let Great-Uncle Jack raise you. I love you for being Paul. So did your mother."

At the mention of his mother, Paul broke. "I want her back!" He laid his head against his dad’s shoulder and started to cry.

"So do I, son." His father’s voice had an odd edge in it. "So do I."

He held Paul while he wept onto his dad’s suit. Paul cried for several minutes before the worst of his pain abated. "Thanks, Dad," he said finally, pulling away and grabbing a towel for his face. "I’m sorry I said what I said."

"It’s alright; you’re taking this better than I thought you would." Dad hesitated. "Maybe I shouldn’t tell you what happened at the police station."

"The police station! Cass didn’t say anything about that." Paul tossed the towel on a heap of dirty clothes. "What happened?"

Dad sat down on the bed. "We were pulled over for going one mile over the speed limit. They must have been looking for you; they zeroed in on Scott and barely paid any attention to me. When they found out he wasn’t you, they gave him a hard time about the AHPs. We finally had to go to the police station to straighten it out." His father brushed his faded brown hair back from his forehead, then sighed. "Once I paid his fine, I asked how the investigation into your mother’s death was going. They found out some strange things, but nothing they can use. For instance, they determined one of the cars in the parking lot was registered to your mother, and that she’d been in there recently. But they couldn’t find any of her DNA on the driver’s side, only on the passenger’s. Who do you think was the driver?"

"Great-Uncle Jack," Paul replied.

"Smart boy," his dad said with a slight smile. "Apparently the car had been stored at his place for her use, and he’d made a statement that he’d driven it while she was on the Sagan. But I know she hadn’t driven that car to the airport; she’d said she’d take a cab. So the only way it could have gotten there is if Great-Uncle Jack had driven it there. He was there, and he had a motive. About the only thing he and your mother agreed on was that they hated each other. And there was DNA from him on her body, though that doesn’t mean much, as he had hugged her earlier. Very convenient for him that he had a holo of that."

"Can they arrest him?"

"I suppose they could question him, but they can’t arrest him. They have no evidence." Dad grinned wryly. "While I was there, someone e-mailed them a virus that wiped out every file mentioning Joanna Lennon Harrison."

Paul clenched and unclenched his fists. "There has to be some evidence that’s still out there. What about a eyewitness, or an earwitness?" This was his chance to redeem himself by avenging his mother….

"No one’s come forward, and given the publicity, you’d think someone would have by now. In a way, I’m glad. Odds are they’d only wind up like your mother."

Paul hid his head in his hands. Was this what had motivated Hamlet to postpone his revenge for so long? He had never understood that, but he was feeling more and more like Hamlet with each piece of news.

"Anyway, that’s not why I came in here. I wanted to give you this." Dad laid the old handheld and the disc on Paul’s bed. "This is your mother’s journal of her first trip on the Sagan, though there are some entries before and after it. When you feel up to it, watch it. It should answer your questions better than I can." He yawned. "I’m sorry, but I’m not up to anything else tonight. I have to try to sleep. If you need to talk, though, Paul, don’t hesitate. That’s what I’m here for."

"Thanks, Dad."

Dad kissed his cheek, something he hadn’t done since Paul was a child. "Have a good night, son."

After his father left, Paul stared at the disc and handheld for several minutes. He cleared a space on his bed, laid down, and inserted the disc into the handheld. A holo of his mother as a young woman appeared. She wore a stained blue lab coat and a cap shadowing her face. The cap couldn’t conceal her Lennon features or the scowl distorting them. Paul flinched. Even at her angriest, his mother had never looked like that. If she had, Paul would have never even thought about crossing her in any way.

"The cel always goes off when you’re in the middle of something uninterruptable, like sampling kidneys," she snapped, as if she took that fact of life personally. "My elbow-length gloves were immersed in ripe-smelling nutrient broth…"

Paul listened, fascinated, as his mother’s holo told him about the fateful meeting that sent her to the Sagan, her developing relationship with his father, her own mother’s death, and her meeting with the alternate John Lennon. Her face gradually softened as the recordings progressed, and after she returned from the alternate universe, she stopped wearing the cap. Paul listened twice to the section where she talked about her decision to be his mother. His father was right. She hadn’t wanted him to be made into 3G; she’d done her best to save him from that fate, just as she had tried to save the other John from the fate he’d suffered in this universe. Paul calculated the time difference between this universe and the other one and realized it was early 1980 there. It was still too soon to tell if she’d succeeded.

He cried briefly again at the end, where his mother, glowing, happy, and looking only like herself in her bridal outfit, promised him he’d always be loved. He shut the handheld off and glanced at the clock. It was early morning, but his mind was buzzing too much for him to sleep. Something had to be done; he couldn’t let his great-uncle get away with killing his mother. But e-mailing in his testimony would do no good, and he couldn’t confront his great-uncle as himself when they returned to Earth. If Granddad was right, there was only one person, alive or dead, who could confront Great-Uncle Jack with impunity.

Paul reviewed his books and discs until he found a photo of John Lennon taken on the day of his death. He studied it carefully, then looked in a mirror and compared his face with 3G’s. It wouldn’t take much to make his face look like 40-year-old 3G’s; he could probably do it with old-fashioned grease paint. But his costume had to be perfect. Nothing less would convince Great-Uncle Jack that he wasn’t 3G’s clone, but his ghost.

"‘The play’s the thing,’" he quoted softly to himself, "‘Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’"

He logged onto the Net with both old and modern handhelds and downloaded everything he could find on John Lennon and the Beatles. This was going to be the role of his life, and he had a lot of studying to do.

Yoko Ono staggered from the air-conditioned lobby of the bank onto the hot New York City street. She leaned against the marble building front, out of the way of rushing businesspeople, and fanned herself with the letter of doom crumpled in her hand.

She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d received the letter notifying her that her safe deposit box rental had long expired and she needed to pay a year’s additional rent and pick up the contents in person. She’d never had an account at this bank before, and she didn’t know who could have set it up and written the questions she’d had to answer before receiving the key. But although this letter had been written in 1961, its author claimed to be from the future, not the past. She claimed to be her great-granddaughter from another universe, and she knew enough about John, Sean, and Yoko for that to be possible.

It was enough to make Yoko believe this Joanna’s words were true when she said John would be murdered in a few months outside their home.

Yoko’s hand trembled as she withdrew the letter from the envelope and reread it. How frustrating; there was just enough detail here to frighten her, but not enough to do anything. Her great-granddaughter hadn’t even mentioned the murderer’s name. How could Yoko prevent this if she didn’t even know the man’s name?

She could try to persuade John to move someplace safer, Yoko supposed. She didn’t think that likely, though. John had fought too hard to remain in the United States to return to England. He loved the bustle and importance of New York, and even better, he could walk down the street without being constantly harassed by fans. John would never want to live in some secluded place. Besides, Joanna said the man came from Hawaii. If he was going to hunt John all the way from Hawaii to New York, where could they run and be safe?

Maybe she could do something here to keep John safe. But she didn’t know how to make him go along with it. People gave her more credit for influencing John than she deserved. No matter what people thought, she didn’t control John; only he controlled himself, and sometimes he didn’t. Perhaps this letter would convince him, if he chose to read it. John seemed to enjoy the uncertainty of the future and wouldn’t want that spoiled. She didn’t want to destroy his hard-won inner peace, but if it was that or lose him so horribly….

"Excuse me? Ms. Ono?"

Yoko looked up from the letter. A woman about ten years older than her stood in front of her. She wore a severe business suit, and spectacles dangled from a chain around her neck.

"Ms. Ono, I’m a big fan of yours. I loved your book Grapefruit. I was wondering, could I have your autograph?"

She seemed too conventional to be a true fan, but Yoko was so flattered she suspended her initial judgement. "I’d be happy to. Let me find a pen." Bending her head, she searched for one in her purse.

A quick movement made Yoko look up just in time to see the woman snatch Joanna’s letter from Yoko’s hand, then run off. "No! Come back!" Yoko cried, taking a few steps forward before stopping. She couldn’t run in these high heels. "Someone stop her! That’s an important letter!"

The traffic drowned her tiny voice.

Millions of miles above Yoko Ono and Ms. Pluckenreck, a former orientation guide for time travelers, and unseen by either, the Hawking Wormhole contracted and expanded several times before stabilizing.

Sandra Ulbrich started her writing career in high school, when she made up her own lyrics to songs. She soon graduated to writing sonnets, villanelles, and free verse. After obtaining her bachelor's degree in molecular biology/English and a Master of Technical and Scientific Communication degree, she worked as a teaching assistant, a science writing intern at the National Cancer Institute, a technical writer, and a proofreader. She is currently a lab technician at an enyzme-producing company. In addition to writing poetry, Sandra has also written a fantasy novel called Day of All Seasons, which has been submitted for publication. She is currently writing a sequel, called Fifth Season. When not writing, Sandra enjoys listening to classic rock (especially the Beatles), reading, gaming, attending cons, and chatting with her friends.