Half Life

by Lillian Clark

  “I woke up.”

  “You weren’t sleeping.”

  “Not now. Before. In the capsule, the blue goop. I woke up.”

  He pales. “No. You can’t remember that. You weren’t— You remember that?”

  I guess I do.

  * * *

  SyncroMem.

  Dr. Adebayo sits back in the rolling desk chair positioned between me and a desk set up with three large computer screens. He points to the monitor nearest to me; on it is the 3-D image of a brain, my brain, with various areas alit. “This is your current brain map.” Next, he points to the central monitor. The image is far more complete than the active, semi-translucent map of mine, transmitted in real time by the sensor halo I’m wearing.

  “Is that her, our, connectome?”

  “Yes.” He smiles. “And we hope so.”

  “Hope what?”

  “That it is your connectome as well. Your cognitive level makes me very optimistic.”

  I cough a laugh. “What happened to the ninety-eight percent”—Ninety-freaking-eight! He did his whole paper in verse—“success rate?”

  He focuses on the third and farthest screen, scrolling with a finger down a list of data that I can’t read from here. He taps a line to highlight it. “Two percent is consequential when you’re discussing the brain.”

  My nose itches. I lift a hand to scratch it and smack myself in the face. I try again. Succeed. Lights flash on my brain map as I do it.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I nod. Successfully! On the first try!

  Focusing back on the screens, he says, “We’ll start with word association. I’ll say a word, and you respond with the next word you think of. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Green.”

  “Grass,” I say.

  “Animal.”

  “Bear.”

  “Square.”

  “Peg.”

  As we volley, I watch the center and closest screens, with their synchronized pinpricks of light.

  “School,” he says.

  “Bus.”

  “Honor.”

  “Code.”

  “First.” First, first…“First time, Saturday.” Cass grins. She leans back against the wall between Louise and me on the bench in the sophomore lobby.

  “And?” Louise asks.

  Cass rolls her head to look at Louise. I can’t see her face, but I imagine that besides the blush in her cheeks she’s arched a coy eyebrow. “And what?”

  “Details! The ins and outs!” Louise laughs. Cass gives her a playful shove with her shoulder. My skin feels sour. That twinge you get in the back of your mouth when you think of lemons, but—everywhere. I wonder if my cheeks are too pale or too pink, knowing they are one or the other but not sure which. Just too.

  Louise shifts on the bench, squaring her shoulders to face Cass. It makes them separate. Together yet alone. “At least, tell me if it was good.”

  Still facing Louise, Cass looks at me. Not a conversation-in-a-glance like we used to share, but a check-if-you’re-listening one.

  Louise notices and says, “Or wait and tell me later.” She winks, then looks around Cass to me. “Wouldn’t want to make Luce uncomfort—”

  “Last,” I say.

  And Adebayo pauses, looking between the screens and scribbling notes, because this time, the pinpricks in Lucille’s and my brain, indicating our answers, are different.

  * * *

  I meet with Dr. Thompson for EQuivalence in her office.

  Sitting in a stiff white chair across from her, I weave my fingers together in my lap. I can do that now. Bend my arms, move my fingers, link them together, rest them, palms up, atop my thighs.

  The lines on my hands are still too pink. Too pink, too few. You never think about how many lines there actually are on your hands. Not just fingerprints and knuckle creases and the ones when you cup your palms. But hundreds of others. Thousands of tiny lines. A lifetime of texture.

  And mine are like a doll’s.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Thompson asks.

  It’s how she’s started every one of these, even though she has instant access to all of my vitals, even though she trails me from session to session.

  Four and a third days of life, fourth day of existence training, and my whole body hurts. Every one of my printed, extruded, layered, assembled muscles is sore. But I can hold my head up for over an hour. Can shift myself in this chair. Can stand for twenty seconds before my knees buckle. And this morning I sat in the shower and washed my own hair for the first time in my life.

  A hundred and four hours. Six thousand two hundred and forty minutes, give or take, of being this. Whatever this is. Of being me. Whoever I am. And every single one (waking and asleep) has felt like trying to remember something I’m not sure I forgot.

  How am I feeling?

  “Thirsty,” I say, and I see it.

  The flicker. Annoyance. Suspicion. Beneath her Proud Pet Parent veneer. She grins, sharp and perfunctory, then taps the screen of her smartwatch.

  “It’s the wrong name,” I say.

  “Sorry?”

  “Equivalence. You should call this one something else.”

  Her face changes. I’ve surprised her. “Why is that?”

  “Equivalent means the same. Equal.”

  “And?”

  “You ask how I’m feeling. What I’m thinking. Tell me”—me, self, individual—“this session is about helping me adjust to the mental and emotional aspects of being a Facsimile, of doing all that I’m required as my Original’s counterpart. But that means I’m—”

  The door slides open in the wall to my left. I watch Isobel enter, holding a tray with a pitcher of water and two empty glasses. She moves to set them on the coffee table, and I say, “I’m not equal.”

  Isobel stills. Only the barest pause. Fills one glass, then the second, while I continue, “I’m a substitute.”

  “Yes,” Thompson says, “you are the sum of your purpose.”

  I lean forward, reaching for a glass. But my hand starts to shake and I can’t, can’t, can’t-can’t-can’t-c-c-c-c-c…

  Isobel touches my shoulder, urging me to sit back in the chair, then hands me the glass. Slowly, carefully, waiting until I can hold it steady in my grip.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  She nods.

  Dr. Thompson watches.

  * * *

  Two weeks of this.

  Mobilivate until I can sit, stand, walk, run. Until my body answers my asks before I know I asked them.

  BodyProg until Kim’s sure my blood won’t turn acidic and I’m not going to shit out my spleen.

  SyncroMem until Adebayo’s certain the Mimeo worked. “Ninety-eight percent?” I ask, and shaking his head, he smiles. “Better.”

  EQuivalence until…

  “Last day,” Thompson says.

  I mirror her posture (legs crossed, hands clasped in my lap, head tilted to the side) and reflect her placid smile back at her. “Last day.”

  “It’s an understatement to say you’ve excelled, Lucy. You have exceeded every expectation.”

  Thanks? “I’m glad.”

  Her focus ticks from my head to my smile to my hands to my crossed legs. Like she’s making a list. Still staring, she shifts, uncrossing then recrossing her legs and resting her elbows on the chair’s arms. It feels like winning a game of chicken.

  “Do you feel prepared for your field trial?”

  EQuivalence until I can look at the woman in charge of my creation, the woman who gave me life yet calls me “it,” stretch my plastic smile, and say, “Absolutely. I’m excited to finally take my place as Lucille’s Facsimil
e,” while hating her so deeply it’s cellular.

  Thompson runs through the protocol for my release (daily check-ins via phone, at least one in-person appointment each week or immediately at the first sign of “malfunction,” the BAN chip integrated into my neck behind my right ear for remote monitoring of my vitals, the GPS chip in the same place on the left) and I let my smile relax, tighten my brow, shifting my expression from “benevolent glee” to “focused attention” while I tend to that hate, my rage, knowing that with proper care, it could sustain me. All tight and hot and roiling. My own personal nuclear reactor, cradled inside my chest.

  It makes me wonder if they did their job too well. If I’m really what they intended. They, by definition, by practice, don’t want an individual. They want a product. A doll with a pulse and a preprogrammed Lucille lexicon. While I’m…

  What am I?

  “And after?” I ask, concentrating on keeping my tone light. “Lucille never— I don’t have a memory of you explaining what happens to me when the trial’s over.”

  Thompson checks her smartwatch, too far away for me to see its display. “You will serve as our prototype,” she says, looking up again. “I’ll present you to the Board as proof of our branch’s success, then to other investors and clients as is necessary.”

  “Like a floor model.”

  She smiles. “Precisely. And Life Squared will keep you on hand as an example for future clients.”

  “So I’ll live here. A sentient brochure. Forever.”

  “For as long as you continue to serve your purpose.”

  * * *

  There’s no banquet. No party with a “Bon Voyage” (or better, “See You Soon!”) cake. Just dinner in my room like every night. Balanced meal, nutritious, bland, on a segmented white cafeteria tray. Alone.

  Tray on my lap, I chew a bite of brown rice and eye the notebook next to me on the bed. I don’t recognize it. Yet, I do. Not like I’ve seen it before, but like I can feel her seeing it on the shelf and picking it out, the flat black cover that feels like fabric, with a geometric pattern visible only when it catches the light. I know that inside I’ll see my (her) handwriting, detailing all the things she’s done for the past few weeks that she thinks I’ll need to know in order to live her life.

  Thompson gave it to me at the end of our session today, saying Lucille had dropped it by this morning. I picture her writing the final entry. Tucking it into her bag. Driving here. Waiting for Isobel to open the gate. Then passing through the doors until she’s in the lobby and we’re both occupying the same building, the same space.

  It’s all in first person when I imagine it. I see her (my) hands doing the writing, gripping the steering wheel. Hear her (my) voice as she hums along with a song on the radio. Feel the surge in her (my) heart rate as she passes through the gate and both doors.

  I try. But I can’t see her from the outside.

  A knock.

  I wait, but no one enters, so I call, “Come in.”

  The door slides open. Isobel stands in the hallway, alone. She steps into my room and presses the pad on the wall to close the door behind her.

  “Do they need me for something?” I ask.

  Stiff shoulders, perfect posture, hands clasped lightly in front of her hips, she stops midway between the door and me on the bed. A crease appears between her perfect eyebrows, the only shift in her otherwise vacant expression. “I can’t decide if I hate you.”

  “Hate me?”

  She blinks, and the crease is gone, replaced by a plastic smile. “Are you finished with that?” she asks, gesturing to my tray.

  No. “Sure.”

  I stand to hand it to her. When she reaches for it, she grabs my hand.

  Subtly.

  Secretly.

  And pushes something hard and plastic into my palm as she takes the tray. Her eyes flash to the hidden observation window in the wall, then back to mine. A warning.

  “Thanks,” I say, and take a step back, crossing my arms to conceal whatever she put in my palm.

  She nods, then turns toward the door. When she presses the pad to open it, she says, “Good luck,” but doesn’t look back.

  I wait for a count of ten, then close myself in the bathroom, open my palm, and find a flash drive.

  LUCILLE

  I roll to a stop at the curb outside Life2, turn off the car, climb out, and stare.

  I was here yesterday, dropping off the notebook and a set of clothes with Isobel, but today feels different. There’s a fullness, one that’s prickly and bright.

  The video-com screen flicks on, and Isobel’s face appears. “Lucille?”

  I step up. “I’m here.”

  The gate opens.

  She greets me in the lobby, wearing her usual stiff skirt suit and deliberate expression. I think of her weeping over me after the Mimeo, but it feels distant and surreal, like a dream. “Ready?” she asks.

  I nod.

  She leads me in the direction of the conference room. With every step, the knot in my chest goes tighter and tighter, until it’s so taut it hums.

  And then we’re there.

  Then she’s there.

  “Lucille,” Dr. Thompson says, standing at the head of the table, “meet Lucy.”

  She sits in the chair next to Dr. Kim across the table from me, her back to the courtyard with its brilliant sun streaming in around her. It catches in her—my—hair, illuminating the flyaway strands like gold.

  Her eyes meet mine. My eyes meet mine.

  She leans forward, and her hair slips over her shoulder. I lift a hand to loop my own behind my ear and am legitimately unsettled when she doesn’t lift her hand too.

  “Sit,” Thompson says. “Please.”

  I do, closing the distance between us to three feet.

  She’s wearing the clothes I brought for her—loose white T-shirt, jean shorts, my extra pair of tennis shoes—and the notebook sits on the table in front of her. I wonder what she thought of it.

  I wonder if she thinks. Are the things that pass through her head…mine? Not mine, as in an echo of what I’m thinking right now. But mine as in what I would think if I shared the same advent.

  I stare.

  She stares back.

  I narrow my eyes.

  She narrows hers.

  I tip my head.

  She tips—

  “Lucy.”

  She looks to Dr. Thompson, and her expression flips to an innocent grin. “Yes?”

  My voice. Out of her mouth.

  Thompson holds her eye for a moment, and there’s something there. An uncertainty. She takes the seat at the head of the table and turns to me. “Lucille. How are you feeling?”

  “A little sick,” I say, then smile. “But don’t worry, I won’t make a mess on the floor again.”

  She grins. “Good.”

  Lucy huffs a breath out her nose. Is she remembering it?

  I glance at her and away.

  Thompson laces her fingers together on the tabletop. “Let’s get started.”

  * * *

  We stand in the lobby, half an hour of detailed protocol later. Thompson, Kim, Lucy, me. And Isobel, back a pace.

  “Well,” Lucy says. “What are we waiting for?”

  I swallow. My saliva, throat, the air, everything’s thick. Like a dream where it’s too hard to move. Like the SUV, pressing down around—

  No.

  I shake my head. Take a deep breath. Feeling weird is normal, right? This is weird. I should feel weird. “Nothing,” I answer. “Got everything?”

  She holds up my notebook and the phone Thompson gave her for check-ins—literally the only things she owns—while giving me a blank-faced look.

  “Right. Silly
question.”

  “Remember, first appointment is Sunday,” Thompson says.

  We nod. At the exact same moment. In the exact same way. And I think, Deep breaths. That’s all. Deep breaths and the plan. Protocol. Daily check-ins by phone, weekly check-ups in person. The BAN—for monitoring vitals—and GPS chips in her neck. Call or get to Life2 immediately if someone suspects, if something goes wrong, with her body or otherwise. Plus the calendar filled out on the wall at home.

  Just a month.

  A whole month.

  And like that, it’s gone. The tension, the fear. I walk out the door, Lucy a step behind, feeling buoyant.

  “Good luck.”

  I—we—pause, turn back. Mirrored movements. Duplicated like déjà vu. A glitch.

  Isobel stands in the doorway wearing her impassive face, then as I watch, her gaze slides from me to Lucy.

  They share a look.

  Lucy nods.

  Isobel steps back and lets the door close.

  Enclosed in the tiny entryway, that nowhere gap between the real world and whatever Life2 is, Lucy turns to me, or, to the door, waiting for me to push it open.

  She’s so real. So solid. So much more than a figment. So much more than parts.

  She meets my eye, and I turn away.

  LUCY

  I’m raw. Squishy and bare. Like a mollusk ripped from its shell.

  (Fun fact: When you de-shell a mollusk, it dies.)

  We pull away from the curb, Lucille navigating with so much care and consideration it feels like riding in a marshmallow. Still, my heart races. I reach forward, turn on the radio, pick the preset for Dad’s favorite rock station, catch Lucille’s pinched expression, then settle back and close my eyes.

  “How do you feel about meeting Lucille’s mother?” Thompson asked a few days ago. “Living with her?”

  Blank-faced, I’d stared at my hand, resting palm-down on my thigh. I stretched my fingers, again and again. Stretch, hold, relax. Stretch, hold, relax. And wondered, was the blood running through those thin blue veins mine yet? Just mine, not Lucille’s. The heart pumps around two thousand gallons of blood each day. Kim told me that. Two thousand gallons per day, eighty-three gallons an hour, about a minute for a denoted drop to make its cycle through the body back to the heart. Which meant that on that day, the fourteenth day of my life, the blood they’d made for me had cycled through my conscious body something like fifteen thousand times.