Davin wasn’t sure if Trace was a first or
last name and, despite questioning, the natural-born didn’t
elaborate. His ragged jumpsuit bore no rank or any identification
marks other than a number, 00627885, on the left breast
pocket and a ripped barcode on the right shoulder. Trace had no
comment on that, either.
They lay stretched out alongside each other
with Davin’s open jumpsuit draped over Trace’s shoulder and hip in
some semblance of cover. Inexplicably, the touch of Trace’s skin
seemed so very different from the feel of another replicate’s flesh
on Davin’s own. He kept smoothing a hand over Trace’s body, petting
down the hairs on his arm and legs and stomach, marveling at the
feel beneath his fingertips. Davin’s underwear was still tucked
uncomfortably beneath his balls,
