Replica

by Jack Heath

  ‘Me too. The last time I spoke to him, he was in a lot of pain and on a lot of drugs, but he did manage to say something. He said, “The pinboard is all worn out. But you can keep the photos.”’

  ‘Because you’d still have your memories of him?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I think that’s what he meant.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because if all that’s left of Graeme is memories, and you have all Chloe’s memories of him, then he was right about you. In every way that matters, you are his daughter.’

  ‘I’m worried that I’ll forget him,’ I say. ‘Not everything about him, but little pieces, one at a time, until there’s nothing special left.’

  ‘Don’t your memories last for ever?’

  ‘No. The people who designed my brain wanted it to be realistic, so they programmed them to fade.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ she says.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Maybe we can hack it.’

  ‘Hack what?’ I ask. ‘My brain?’

  ‘Sure. Your code is the problem, so we change the code.’

  It hadn’t occurred to me to try that. ‘Do you know how to do that?’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know how it’s set up, obviously. But I can take a look. If it’s just one sub-routine, I can try to disable it. I mean, if you want me to.’

  The idea of changing my programming is seductive. It feels like my first chance to decide who I’m going to be, instead of following someone else’s script. Literally.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Let’s do it.’

  There’s a pause.

  Becky says, ‘How do I … is there a USB port in your head, or anything?’

  I laugh nervously. ‘I don’t know.’

  She touches my hair, parting it, nails gently raking across my scalp. A tingle zips down my spine.

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ she says.

  ‘I didn’t see any cables when Chloe first woke me up,’ I say.

  ‘What about a router? Maybe you have Wi-Fi.’

  ‘Maybe. How could I tell?’

  ‘Just a sec.’ Becky pulls a netbook off her bookshelves and switches it on.

  After a few seconds of fiddling, she says, ‘Yeah, here you are.’ She turns the reader around to show me a list of ‘devices’. One of them is called ‘Chloe’.

  Seeing my brain on a list of computers makes me feel dizzy. ‘Can you access it?’

  She tries. ‘Nope. Password protected.’

  I tell her Chloe’s email password. ‘Try that.’

  She taps the screen a few times, and blinks. ‘I’m in.’

  I close my eyes, wondering if I’ll be able to feel her intrusion. But there’s nothing.

  ‘Can you see the code?’

  She looks nervous. ‘There’s a lot of files, including a config document for memory.’

  What have I got to lose? ‘Open it,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t,’ she says, after a pause. ‘Not while your systems are running.’

  ‘Then switch me off,’ I say. ‘I could use some sleep.’

  ~

  When I wake up, the clock resting against the books on one of Becky’s shelves tells me that almost an hour has passed. Longer than I expected.

  ‘How do you feel?’ she asks. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, the netbook closed beside her.

  ‘Smart,’ I say. ‘No, that’s not quite right. Knowledgeable.’

  ‘You still remember who you are, and everything? You remember me?’

  I nod. ‘And more. What did you do to me?’

  ‘I removed the limitations on your memory and processing speed,’ she says. ‘Then I gave you some new memories to test the modifications.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I found the folder in your system where books are stored. Chloe had told me about some authors that she’d always wanted to read, but never found the time. So I uploaded their complete bibliographies. You’ve read almost two hundred more books now than you had before.’

  I search the inside of my own head. It’s true. I can name – and summarize—all the novels and short stories by Mary Shelley, Phillip K. Dick, and many other writers.

  ‘She also told me she wanted to travel,’ Becky continues. ‘She wanted to see Malaysia, Russia, and Uganda. Now she never will, but I thought maybe if I gave you pictures and maps and histories of those countries, that would be the next best thing. I gave you some programming knowledge, too—in case we can find Ares’ backup servers.’

  Images flash up in my head as she names the countries. I know the faces on the bank notes, the names of the politicians and the locations of the landmarks.

  Becky’s hair has fallen across her cheek. I want to tuck it behind her ear. In fact, I want more than that. She’s so clever, so kind. I want to lean in and kiss her beautiful mouth. The longing is so strong it hurts.

  And yet I’m frozen in place. I have no hormones to pump through my brain. No blood to colour my cheeks. No heart to beat faster at the sight of Becky. These sensations are fake. Does that mean my feelings are, too? Does it matter?

  Part of me wonders if she programmed me to love her while I was unconscious. But the rest of me knows that I’ve wanted her since we met, even if I’ve only just admitted it to myself.

  The authenticity of my emotions is only half the equation. How would Becky feel about dating Chloe’s ghost?

  ‘I know you’re not her,’ Becky says, as if she could hear my thoughts. Her voice wobbles. ‘I do know that. But I think she would have liked you to … to become the woman that she always wanted to be.’

  Her tears choke off the last word. The almost-kiss forgotten, I wrap her up in a hug. Her body jerks as she pulls in sob after shuddering sob.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, rubbing my palm against her back. I’m not sure if she hears me. ‘Chloe wouldn’t have wanted you to be sad.’

  She keeps crying. I can feel my shoulder getting wet. ‘I miss her so much,’ she gasps.

  ‘I know. But I’m going to take care of you. We’re going to take care of each other. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she says miserably. ‘OK.’

  I spend the night at Becky’s place, lying beside her on top of the sheets, stroking her hair until she falls asleep. My fingers stick to the strands, so I use a pencil instead.

  To pass the time, I re-read some of the books installed in my head, and brush up on my Russian history. The amount of knowledge that has been crammed into my brain is spectacular. I could give presentations on it.

  If only Chloe’s story were so clear. I don’t know why Ares followed her rather than Graeme, or why her school was their target, or why her father drove his car off the road. And I have no idea how to find any of it out.

  After chasing my thoughts around in circles for a while, I realize that if I don’t leave soon I won’t make it home before Kylie wakes up. I don’t want to rouse Becky, so I shift away from her—slowly, gently—before climbing out of bed and exiting through the window.

  I’m halfway home when I remember the thumping from the boot of the soldier’s car. The muffled yelling.

  Was that Graeme’s voice?

  THE NET, CAST

  ‘Thanks for calling Ares Security.’

  ‘Is this Nadine?’ I ask. I keep my voice low. It’s ten o’clock, but Kylie is still asleep in the next room.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Sorry, who is this?’

  ‘A friend of Graeme’s.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘How did you get this number?’ she whispers.

  ‘I know a lot more than just the number,’ I say. ‘But I have questions. You’re going to give me the answers—unless you want your bosses to find out what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘Hold on,’ she says. ‘Don’t do anything rash. We should meet. This afternoon.’

  She hasn’t hung up on me, so she must be talking on a secure phone. Or she thinks, she is, at least.

  ‘Three o’clock,’ I
say. ‘At the bookshop in the north-east corner of the Belconnen shopping centre. It’s on the top floor. Come alone.’

  ‘That’s too public,’ she says. ‘If they see me …’

  ‘Then I suggest you use a disguise.’

  ‘How will I know you?’

  She would have seen pictures of Chloe on the walls of Graeme’s house. But I don’t want her to know who I am until I get there.

  ‘I’ll know you,’ I say. ‘Bring a pencil. Tuck it behind your ear.’

  I hang up before she has the chance to argue.

  Kylie appears in the doorway. Her pyjamas are crinkled and her hair is scuffed up on one side and the skin around her eyes is bruised with exhaustion. She hasn’t slept at all.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asks.

  ‘Henrietta. Just checking that we’re OK.’

  Kylie nods, and squints out of the living room window.

  ‘Can I make you some tea?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I have to go out.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I need to arrange the funeral and talk to our lawyer,’ she says. ‘And there are some insurance things to deal with. I could only get two weeks off work, so I’d like to get it all out of the way.’

  Graeme was the only member of our family with a decent salary. Kylie probably makes enough for us both to live off, but not to the standard we’re used to. A car. A nice house, near the school and close to our friends. Food that doesn’t come out of a can, or the freezer.

  ‘You shouldn’t have to go back to work so soon,’ I say. ‘I can get a job. At weekends, and at night.’

  ‘No,’ Kylie replies. ‘With Graeme gone, I’ll need you at home.’

  ‘But we might need the extra money.’

  ‘Your father was well covered,’ Kylie says. ‘We’ll be OK.’

  We can’t live off life insurance for ever, but I don’t say so. She has enough on her mind. I’ll bring it up again in a few days, though. I’m strong, knowledgeable, and I don’t need to eat or sleep. With the right job, I could earn more than enough to keep her above the poverty line.

  Until I get found out. Then she’ll have nobody.

  ~

  The floor squeaks under my shoes as I walk past the clothes shops which thump like nightclubs, the kiosks selling cable TV subscriptions, the beauty shops adorned with bath salts and scented candles. A girl glares at an ATM with the intensity of a safe-cracker. A toddler runs past me, screaming, while his father calls his name half-heartedly.

  The bookshop is up ahead, towers of bestsellers looming behind the windows. Nadine is scheduled to arrive in ten minutes; I want to see her go in before I do.

  The plump couches are conspicuously close to the entrance. Instead, I stand on the opposite side of the corridor, pretending to talk on the phone. ‘Uh-huh,’ I say. ‘Well, what did you tell him? Really?’

  She arrives just as I’m running out of things to say. A woman with prematurely greying hair and hooded eyes behind flimsy-looking glasses. I don’t realize it’s Nadine until she’s already inside the bookshop, tucking a pencil behind her ear with one hand as she touches the spines of celebrity biographies with the other.

  No one seems to be following her. A few people peer through the windows of the bookshop, but they don’t go in. The other browsers pass her with no apparent interest.

  I watch for a minute or two before approaching the shop, keeping my head bowed even though I’m wearing a beanie and tinted sunglasses. If Ares later works out that Nadine was here and steals the footage from the security cameras, I don’t want them to get a good look at me.

  The smells of warm paper and carpet cleaner meet me as I walk in. Once I’m out of range of the cameras in the entrance, I amble towards the biography section, occasionally stopping to pick up a book and pretend to read a blurb.

  ‘Can I help you find anything?’ asks a cheerful staff member from behind me. The sudden noise makes me jump.

  I glance back at her and smile. ‘Not just yet, thanks.’

  ‘OK. Let me know.’

  Her plait dangles around her hips as she walks away.

  Nadine glances over at me as I sidle up beside her. Apparently not recognizing me, she turns back to the shelves.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  She looks at me again, taking in my clothes and my age. ‘Are you here for me?’ she says, uncertainly.

  I’ve only heard her speak on the phone. She sounds different in person. Her voice is lighter. More feminine.

  Even if she hasn’t seen the pictures of Chloe at the house, she knows Graeme had a teenage daughter, and that I describe myself as ‘a friend of his’. It’s surprising that she hasn’t worked out who I am …

  Unless this isn’t the real Nadine.

  A chill runs through my titanium tendons. If Ares intercepted my phone call, they could have sent someone else in Nadine’s place. This could be one of their soldiers.

  ‘No, sorry,’ I say, trying to look puzzled. ‘Excuse me.’

  I squeeze past her to the shelves on the other side of the aisle, pretending that I only said ‘hi’ to be polite. I select a book, examine the cover, and put it back.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ the woman says. ‘Graeme’s friend.’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know any Graeme. You must have me mixed up with somebody else. See you.’

  I shuffle across into the next aisle and put my sunglasses back on. Between the shelves, I can see her moving after me.

  Not too fast, not too slow, I work my way out of the bookshop. ‘Have a good day,’ says the girl with the long plait as I step out the door. She says it too quietly and from too far away to be talking to me. The woman who isn’t Nadine must be following me out.

  I turn left, hoping to lose her in the bustling crowd. As I approach the giant spiral staircase, a tall man with a grey suit and a clenched jaw steps out of a phone shop and starts moving towards me.

  Pretending not to notice him, I slip into the crowd and trot down the staircase. My skin remains smooth, but I can feel goosebumps rising all over my body.

  I pass the first-floor exit and keep descending towards the ground. But two more Ares agents, stern and muscular, are striding towards the bottom of the staircase. It’s like being a fox, watching the hounds draw closer from all sides.

  I whirl around and start climbing back up to the first floor. The woman who was immediately behind me yells ‘Hey, watch it!’ and I mutter ‘Sorry,’ as I race up the stairs.

  I reach the first-floor exit before the tall man does, and sprint away from the staircase towards the car park. I can’t pretend that I don’t know I’m being chased any more. Two pairs of shoes clop against the tiles behind me as the tall man and ‘Nadine’ reach this floor. Then two more pairs join them, as the other agents arrive.

  The automatic door slows me down. I wave my hands frantically in front of the sensor and squeeze through the growing gap into cold daylight.

  I got here by bus, so no getaway car is waiting for me but, if I can get down to the ground floor, I can flee on foot. I dash across the car park towards the ramp.

  Just as I approach the ramp, a black van lurches up it and skids to a halt in front of me. The driver, a burly rhinoceros of a man, jumps out and starts running in my direction. So does his passenger.

  With six people hurtling towards me from two sides, I whirl around and dash towards the edge of the car park. Maybe it will be close enough to the ground that I can jump down.

  I collide with the concrete barrier and peer down at the lethal drop. The impact will split my plastic skin and break my titanium skeleton, ensuring that I can never again pass for human.

  But that’s probably better than whatever Ares Security plans to do to me. I climb onto the barrier and prepare to jump …

  A crackling sound tears through the air. My skin ripples as though ants have tunnelled beneath it. The world flashes bright and dark and bright again as the chip in my head fights to process the visual data. Pixel errors swarm ac
ross the world in front of me. I try to hurl myself over the edge, but all my joints have locked together and I fall backwards instead, hitting the concrete head first. I can’t move. I can’t think. As far as the drop was, I’m now falling so much further, into a hole so black and cold that I’ll never find my way out.

  ~

  I wake in the back of a van, shivering and blinking as though my eyelids are trying to signal somebody with Morse code.

  It takes a moment to guess what has happened—the zapping sound was a Taser. I’ve been electrocuted, my brain has done a hard reboot, and now I don’t know where I am.

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Christiansen,’ the driver is saying. A headset is clipped around his ear. ‘The replica was Nadine Yumika’s contact.’

  Christiansen’s voice is tinny in the headset speaker. ‘How is that possible? The chip went missing long before the replica existed.’

  ‘You could ask Nadine, sir.’

  ‘No. It’s too late for that.’

  If he’s talking to Warren Christiansen, the CEO and owner of Ares Security, then I’m not being held prisoner by a rogue unit. My captor has the full might of the company behind him. Since he’s using his boss’s name in front of me, he probably doesn’t intend to let me live. It sounds like Nadine is already dead.

  Fighting to control my twitching eyelids, I stare at the massive trees and power lines visible through the windscreen. The van isn’t moving, but we’re not at the shopping centre any more.

  ‘Graeme Zimetski didn’t know where the QMP was,’ Christiansen says. ‘If the replica doesn’t either, we’ll have to pick up his wife.’

  Kylie. No! I lunge towards the back door of the van, but something stops me halfway. My wrists are fastened to the wall by thick rope. My feet are bound to the floor.

  The driver looks over at me. There’s a fat bruise under his jaw. It’s one of the soldiers from Scullin High. The one who drove the car with someone in the boot.

  ‘It’s back on,’ he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s referring to me. ‘I’ll call you when I’m done.’

  He pushes a button on his headset, unbuckles his seat belt, and climbs into the back with me.

  ‘You murdered Graeme Zimetski,’ I say.