Checking in on Penelope

Penelope sighs, gazing into a locket containing a picture of her parents when they were first married. She tries to concentrate on the happy times she’d had with them, but the memories are always interrupted by the grisly deaths which had ended her happiness. She curls up into a little ball on her bed, clutching the locket to her chest.

“I wish there were something I could do.” Dak says.

“How about letting me grieve in peace for starters?” Penelope snaps. Dak’s telepathic projection steps back, surprised. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just...”

“No, you are right to be angry.” Dak says. “I should not have intruded. This is your personal pain, and you need to deal with it in your own way.”

“Please, Dak, don’t go.” Penelope whimpers. “I...I need someone to talk to. I...I can’t deal with this on my own.”

“I am unsure of what I could possibly say that would help, my own parents died when I was too young to remember them. The staff of the science station where they had worked in life cared for me throughout my childhood, until I was old enough to begin working there. But...I will try.”

“You’re an orphan?” Penelope asks, looking the projection in the eyes.

“Yes.” Dak replies. “I used to despair because I had no biological parents to do family-things with. I was shared by seven families on the station who had raised children before, but no longer had dependent children living with them. I often wondered what it was like to have parents, to wake up in the same bed every morning, to see the same loving, smiling face each day, to be able to keep large or numerous toys like other children I knew. I used to resent my foster families for trying so hard to save my life that day. I used to resent them for trying to be parents to me, when all I wanted were my real parents. I used to resent them for what I thought was fake parentalism. One day, however, I caught an infection which settled in my hearts and resisted all the attempts by my immune system to counter it. My hearts failed, and I was placed on an artificial pump until one of my foster-parents volunteered to have one of his hearts cloned for me. They made three clone-hearts from his DNA and, since his organ type was the same as mine, my body did not reject them. I never did figure out how to properly thank him, but I realized something that day. Despite our lack of actual genetic bonds, my foster-families cared for me just as they would one of their own children.

“I realize how alone you feel at this moment, young Penelope, but it does not have to be thus.” Dak continues. “Reach out, let your needs be known, instead of hiding them within yourself. Do not wall yourself away from those who care for and about you. I realize you are hurting, but solitude only makes it worse. Trust me, I know this much for a fact. Your isolation has already touched the hearts of almost everyone here. You can take your pick if you like.”

“Thanks, Dak.” Penelope says. “You’ve been a big help.” The alien smiles, and fades away to allow Penelope to absorb the import of what she has been told. “One thing though...” she begins, and Dak reappears beside her. “If they had the technology to clone you some new hearts, why didn’t they use your DNA?”

“I have no unaffected cardiac cells left.” Dak responds. “Cloning new hearts from my DNA would have required cloning my entire body and then transplanting the hearts from the clone to my own body—a procedure which my people had outlawed before your sun had planets. Once the hearts of a clone begin to beat, it is considered alive and granted certain unalienable rights, including life, liberty and the pursuit of spiritual fulfillment.”

“Oh.” Penelope says, mulling that over for a moment. She smiles gratefully at Dak’s image and leaves the bed to join the rest of the group.