If you see Buddha on the Holostream…

Content warning: This story contains content relating to abuse and food restriction.

Siddartha Gautama stepped out onto stage to a round of thunderous applause. He bowed graciously at the audience members before taking his seat at the roundtable. Sitting clockwise from him was Confucius, (the former) Pope John Paul II, Viv Sotal of the Starlight Crusade, and finally, Phật Gioan Baotixita.

“Wow. The Buddha? How did you manage that?” asked the host and moderator, Nip Kovaks.

Gioan smiled, soaking up the audience’s awe like a leech. “Well, Nip. It was quite simple. Do you remember that ancient Buddhist temple that was discovered underneath Kushinagar?”

“Of course! Its discovery dominated the headlines for a full week.” Nip nodded along eagerly. Meanwhile, NBN editors spliced in threedee footage of the temple’s discovery into the feed. Gautama could see the holos of the archaeologists unearthing digital ground next to himself on the playback monitor.

“Well, there were several relics in there that we have good cause to believe belonged to ol’ Sid here. Thanks to the low acidity levels of the soil and nearly hermetic seal of the relic chamber itself, we were able to find trace amounts of surviving genetic material. That brought us most of the way, but there were still gaps in the DNA. To fill those gaps, we used genetic samples from confirmed descendants of Buddha, including, I reveal here today, myself.” He allowed an awed murmur to pass through the audience. “Finally, we’ve been able to reconstruct a DNA profile of Buddha with a ninety-nine-point-five percent confidence.” Gautama smiled blandly throughout this explanation of his life.

Gautama had no proof any of this was false. Still, he doubted. It had all happened before he had been created, obviously, but what he remembered of his infancy was dull gardens where he wasn’t allowed to climb or play. When he was able to read, it transitioned to long, grueling hours of study. For breaks, he was allowed to meditate, nothing else. Buddha, Buddha, Buddha had been drilled into him–twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

“Truly amazing! Well, it looks like that’s the whole panel assembled. Let’s have round one of this discussion begin!” The host clapped their hands. “Okay, Buddha, Confucius, JP two, you’ve all been asleep for years, so discussions have somewhat changed from your times. I’ll explain the rules for you, even though I’m sure everyone in our audience already knows.” 

Gautama and all the other clones had been briefed extensively on the rules of the discussion beforehand. After his handlers felt he had a suitable strong grasp on the foundations of Buddhist theology, they had transitioned the lessons from philosophy to rhetoric, apologetics, and acting.

“First, we’re going to open with a few fun icebreaker games! This has been scientifically proven to enhance discussion quality. We’ll start with a fun game of taste-testing!” A hidden compartment on the roundtable opened in front of each guest and three unlabelled cans each rose to the tabletop.

Gautama and Confucius gave small starts with practiced skill, and the audience laughed. John Paul and Viv both feigned interest and curiosity, lifting the cans, touching and examining the table for any more tricks.

Nip continued, “We have three unlabelled cans of Diesel™ in front of each of you. Your game is to guess what flavour each can is! Each correct guess here will count as a point to your debate total, so taste carefully.”

Gautama was first to go. First, he raised the solid grey can, with an experimental air. He tried to drink from it without popping the tab first, and the audience laughed again. Nip motioned for a stage hand to show him how to open the can. Confucius leaned over to share in the observation. The can opened with a sharp metal scrapping and the hiss of carbonization. Gautama attempted to peer into the can to a few more giggles, but he got the impression that his slapstick was growing a touch stale. He raised the can to his lips and took a sip.

Back in the facility, food had been the first level of punishment. Incorrect answers on religion tests cost a meal. Stuttering, stumbling over words, or using um’s or ah’s cost drinks. Gautama had once flunked a test so badly, he had had to be put on an IV drip, just so he would get some nutrients. 

The last month, as they’d been prepping for this show, his handlers had transitioned him and other Buddhas from protein blocks to real, human food. Gautama had shat himself several times as his stomach adjusted to the more complex fats and sugars. Bathroom breaks had been the next level of punishment.

He pulled a face as the liquid touched his tongue, the first authentic reaction he displayed. It tasted like the stomach acid of a child who’d been stranded in a candy store overnight, just like every other can of Diesel Gautama had had. The acidity and sweetness overpowered any attempt at flavours, so Gautama took a stab in the dark. “Oh, that’s foul. Is it the urine of a horse?”

Nip’s smile stretched wide enough that it looked painful. “Come on, now. Is it that bad?” There was an edge in their voice that said, Quit playing the fool. Gautama got the message. “Perhaps it is goji berry?” This elicited a more genuine laughter from the host and audience. “Incorrect! That’s strawberry. I guess they didn’t have those in ancient times, eh? Better luck with the next one. Now, drink!”

Gautama and Confucius didn’t get a single drink flavour correct, but that didn’t seem to diminish anyone’s enjoyment. John Paul and Viv both got one correct each, blueberry and kiwi respectively. 

Gioan got all three right. He wouldn’t have even needed the stagehand’s voice in his ear feeding him answers. From what Gautama had seen of the man, he lived off the stuff. There was probably an IV drip of Diesel in his office.

Gioan had visited the Gautama and the other clones often over the course of their development. Gautama knew he should’ve hated him–that he was the brain, if you could call him that, behind the operation. That the reason for all the suffering was just to please this man’s ego. But to Gautama, he’d always seemed like a dumb baby. It was the handlers, who listened to Gioan’s infantile tantrums and ranting, that drove Gautama mad. They clearly had the same opinion of Gioan as Gautama; he’d heard their whispers, seen their eyes roll. Why are you listening to this idiot? Aren’t you adults? Aren’t you scientists? Don’t you know better? But no, any time Gautama had tried to curry favour with his handlers by mocking Gioan, they had whipped him with reeds. A fittingly base and simple punishment.

When the game had finished, and the host had plugged all the new flavours of Diesel to the audience, they turned back to the roundtable. “Well, that was fun wasn’t it? Don’t you feel ready to get your intellectual juices flowing? Let’s get round two started, with some actual conversation!” The lighting, which had been painfully bright, dimmed to create a more intimate atmosphere. “Here’s the rules for the discussion rounds. Whenever someone makes a Good Point, as decided by me, the moderator, they get one Debate Point. You can also be awarded points for pointing out logical fallacies in other debaters’ points, in which case, they lose their Debate Point and you gain it! At the end, whoever has the most Debate Points wins the debate.” All the clones nodded in understanding; this had already been explained to them in their training. “Let’s begin! Our first question is: what are the humanitarian obligations of people, both real and corporate, in the case of natural disasters?”

This was where the clones’ real work began. Each of them walked the tightrope of trying to legitimately discuss their religion while pandering to Gioan. They had to make it believable for the viewers, for the practitioners, but comprehensible to Gioan, which was arguably more difficult. He was a capricious god at the best of times. He abhorred sycophants, but despised anyone who disagreed with him. The trick was to guess his opinion before he knew it, so that he could agree with you.

Oh, various instructors had pretended to be Gioan for practice, with all of the cams in the facility turned off. But even their mawkish impersonations  had vastly undersold how mean and stupid the man was. How utterly self-absorbed and narcissistic he was. Gautama kept a count in his head of how many people could speak before Gioan had to jump in. The number never got higher than five.

Gautama had a good formula for predicting Gioan’s position on any given issue. Simply take the stupidest, cruellest option that let Gioan personally benefit, and that would be his choice. By the end of the first round, they all agreed that during natural disasters, corporations’—even humanitarian ones—first duties were to their owners and shareholders, and had to prioritize the protection of their assets over aid.

“Now, let’s get to the real heart of the matter. Do clones have souls? What does your religion say? Buddha, we’ll start with you.”

Gautama smiled at the camera. “Buddhism teaches us that our souls are immortal. Through the cycle of saṃsāra new bodies are given old souls, each according to their kharma. Souls can only be reborn into natural beings. Just as there is no chance of being reincarnated as a PAD or a bioroid, there is no possibility of being reborn as a clone.”

“One point for Buddha.”

“Ah, but you are begging the question there,” chimed in Gioan. “If there is a finite number of souls, how does humanity’s population keep growing?”

“Point stolen by Gioan.”

“You must remember that all living beings have souls, not just humans. That the explosive boom in humanity has coincided with mass extinctions across Earth, is not surprising. There is a greater need for human souls than animal souls, so many of those souls trapped in the suffering of animals are now in people.”

“Another point for Buddha.”

“Could not the souls for clones come from the souls of these lesser beings?” asked Confucius.

“The cycle of saṃsāra is a cycle of nature. It existed before any technology. Clones by their very definition are unnatural. They are created beings, like bioroids. Just as we cannot choose where we are placed in the cycle, we cannot add beings to it.” Gautama replied.

Gioan hadn’t spoken recently enough. “Buddha makes a great point here. Clones cannot be people. In many cases, they aren’t even human.”

Viv popped in. “But clones have to be at least somewhat human and have value.” Gioan turned to glare at her, but she continued. “Otherwise, this whole debate is moot.”

Nip tried to steer the conversation away. “Confucius, what are your…”

“No,” interrupted Gioan. “What do you mean, Viv?”

Gautama caught the eye of John Paul, and recognized in it the growing panic that was mirrored in his own.

“Well, we’re all prominent historical figures. Or at least, we’re clones of them. So, if we don’t have the soul, the humanity, of those figures, then what’s the point of this discussion?”

Gautama could see where she was coming from. She wanted to make this debate legitimate. But she was going about it all wrong. “I don’t think it’s necessary for clones to have souls in order to—” he began, desperate to intervene.

“Shut up!” Gioan cut Gautama off. “No. You don’t have souls because I made you. I didn’t add souls in the recipe for you. There is no step in the clone process for souls.”

“All I meant was—”

“You don’t decide what you meant. I do. Don’t you get it? You’re my experiment. That means you do what I want you to do.”

Nip was motioning to their producers to cut the feed. Gioan noticed.

“Don’t cut me off!” He stood up and strode towards the cameras, still shouting.

Gautama knew they were in for a long night when they got back to AU Co.

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