Jacquelline Jilles Part II

Jacqueline Jilles

Part II

         The great apes, inclusive of all genera, are remarkable for a few basal reasons: they have a natural inclination to form societies, they have an incredible penchant towards developing tools, plans, and tricks, and, above all else, they have an immense capacity for learning. These three traits are visible in all categories of Hominidae, perhaps most notably in the human organism. That being said, a man born on an island and left to his own devices for a lifetime is, if he can survive, bound to create a worldview for himself. No human, no matter how blank a slate they may begin with, will quickly scrawl all over the thing, covering every inch with personal schema and understandings; and let it be known that the very same expectation applies to clones.

         At the beginning of Jacqueline Jilles' operations, it's feasible to believe that those first clones really had no idea of the universe outside of the varied aspects involving potato harvest. It's inevitable, though, that, upon caging together a group of almost anything, that they'll begin to interrelate- and interrelate the clones did. It started mildly enough, with a few of them sticking together, forming cliques, so to speak; the preferential behavior offered them a more minute scale to work on, and from that point they began to recognize different groups within themselves. After they figured out who comprised what section, they began to discern just what made the "who's" themselves different- that is, they began to see identities in one another. Well, that's really where things culminated, because once cattle figures out it has individuality, the whole pasture transgresses into a society. Of course, Miss Jilles couldn't see her workers getting wise for the trees- her gaze was far too enraptured by the gleam of coinage and jewelry; in fact, the only time she even dignified the clones with her attention was when she was making her daily fly-over or when she had one fixed in the sights of her ever-present, fast-charging, laser pistol. Despite her ignorance, or perhaps on account of it, the clones began to really evolve, in the social sense. It became common to see little scraps of debris, or myriad trinkets adorning their stalls- crafted out of whatever materials they could find lying about; likewise, those preliminary groups took to living each other, in much the same manner as a typical family might. They put faith in each other and began to harbor feelings- hopes, love, and, with a frequency that correlated directly to the number of shots Miss Jilles' took, fear. Now, in the animal kingdom, fear commonly boils down to two greater themes: sadness and anger. The clones, underestimated and under-esteemed as they were, fostered both in equivalence.

         With each passing yield, the workers became more aware of their mistress- began to see the way in which they were being cut down and used as objects. They began to mourn their deceased, at one point, though the practice didn't last long- about a month before it was reflected in production, during which Miss Jilles' asserted her opinions with a staggering amount of bloodshed. There were only so many peers that a person could bury prior to breaking, and that critical point, cracking oh-so-surely, finally buckled in the twenty-first year; two decades of unfair appropriations, needless death, and unrestrained evolution.In the twilight of their discontent, the crisis was met with the occasional whisper in the stalls- tame as anything. The more they whispered, though, the more they realized they could get away with whispering, and so, soon enough, the whispers became declarations (to which Miss Jilles' remained vapidly oblivious), and the clones began to retaliate in their small ways: stealing potatoes, digging up seeds- the bravest, or most brash, took to throwing stones up from the fields at the madam's dais; though the clones soon learned to what extent that action could gain them her ire. Petty acts aside, nothing was changing. The clones rose, they worked, and the died; they adhered to that structure as sure as it was the only conceivable course. And, if not for a new mentality rising deftly through the throngs, it might well have been. A few of the clones had gotten to talking- the only way, they figured, to stop the malfeasance was to get rid of the terror. To eliminate the progenitor of their plight, as violent as it seemed, was, ultimately, the one sure way to go about escaping the horrid conditions that surrounded them. In addition, they argued, from a sheer statistical perspective, the hundreds that had lost their lives more than deemed the death of their executioner a pale comparison. Their speech had some logic to it, it's to be sure; the clones were good at heart, though, and under any other circumstances the notion of such savagery would have been hastily denounced. However, these circumstances had mutated- grown muddled and desperate. The aforementioned point had met it's terminal stress, and the plans for usurpation spiraled across the masses.

         It was a bright morning; not a particularly rare occurrence, but an appreciated one, nonetheless. Miss Jilles' had just taken an early bath and had begun to head out on her flight, looking the part as a grim valkyrie to the extent she always managed. All the clones had been out in the fields for hours, by this point, and, at face value, this was a dreadfully ordinary day. Unlike any other of the scripted cycles, this was the day that the clones had been anticipating. Everyone knew their parts, and every single body was more than ready to play them out. Their plan was a simplistic one- the power of numbers, really. As soon as she would pass a group, barring any conflicts (all clones attempted model workmanship that day), the group would begin to follow her. As she made her way towards the far side of the land, she had amassed somewhat of a parade behind her, silent and cautious, nigh-invisible to her singular tunnel vision. Simultaneously, the clones on the side opposite Miss Jilles' manor had begun to traverse in the opposite direction, so that when the mistress had arrived at the farm's halfway point, she was greeted in front by half of a riot, each steeled and pulsing with unavoidable hatred. She didn't take it for anything, and just began shouting at them, as if nothing were to happen. She certainly didn't expect anything, and, when the clones didn't get back to work, she unholstered her favorite toy and struck one of the men in the front row down. This did it, and the wall before her began to walk steadily forward. This must have spooked her, as she didn't even bother to discharge her gun again, instead favoring the idea of getting as far away as possible. Of course, when she turned her dais around, she only saw the other half of the mob; a collective vigilante surrounding her. Maybe it was then that she realized her situation, as she just began to fire blindly, not even bothering to aim or escape. Well, she pegged a few more clones, but, in the end, they pulled her platform straight out of the sky. They didn't kill her, no, they were too empathetic for that. Besides, desperation is no grounds to become the cause of despair. Indeed, they did discard of her, but they did it with such poeticism that a person would be hard-pressed to think worse of them for it; that is, they tied her up with potato roots- the lifeblood of her beloved industry, and they placed her in the trolley. She screamed and cursed through it all, an audience of uneasily relieved clones watching as she made her ascent up the mountain side, a small, inky plume arising as the sole signifier of the peoples' triumph.

         It was a dirty act, it's to be sure, but one performed out of sheer necessity- justice, even, if you were to ask any sane peoples. After the fact, horrified at the prospect of a missed opportunity, we were all too ready to fill the vacancy in management of Jilles' Acres. There were some among our numbers who called for more drastic change- to forfeit our old lives entirely- but at our cores, we knew we couldn't do that. As much as it pained any clone to admit, we had been programmed from the start- farming those potatoes was all we really knew; or at least all we had enough knowledge of to be proficient at. I, for one, took solace in our ability to maintain the business. We didn't change all that much, supplying to the same locales, though we did transfer every single last cent that Miss Jilles had been funneling to HCI into construction and renovation: we built homes- real houses- (in opposition to the stables), paved walkways, and even a schoolhouse (which we supplemented with a Profbox, uploaded with all the latest in primary and secondary curriculum). Ah, the schoolhouse- that brings me to the most joyous facet of our emancipation- the children! As it was, our tailored genetics were more than apt for procreation, and so we did, ushering forth a new generation, a natural wave- rife with the potential that we ourselves had been so decidedly robbed of. The happiness they instilled in our people was more than just base pride; in those second generation clones we saw raw, latent freedom. They were untethered to this farm, this rock, or this goddamned back-water galaxy. They could be and do nearly anything they pleased, especially seeing as each and every one was backed by this place's constant profit. It's grand, the irony of it all, and I like to think that Miss Jilles' is still around, in some part, just so she can see how wrong she was. She, or her facsimile, at the very least, does live on in slight- that is, events are quick to become stories, stories- legends, and legends- fascinations. Our children came to revere the tale of our retribution, and, silly as it was, cobbled together a sort of rhyme, a bitter imprint of a dirge-worthy history:

         "Jacqueline Jilles killed clones for thrills,

         And got rich off the slaughter,

         But she got blind,          

         And came to find,

         Her world became hotter."



         I'll tell you, though, despite the farm's reform and our own impressive kindness, we still didn't see many ethics inspectors out here. I suppose that, a bit of silence, is the one boon a tyrant can distribute. Still, too much quiet is all-too-easy to attain, and I was glad to have dissolved that yoke just as sure any other being.