Her favorite had always been the Baptist churches, because of the music. She loved how the entire congregation would stand and join in the singing, hands clapping, heads swinging and eyes half-closed, as though the music was the main event of the day.
“If God doesn’t hear that,” she’d say, “then He just doesn’t have ears.”
Jeremiah never liked these Baptist visits. It seemed too disorderly to him, with everyone in the place erupting in an “Amen” or a “Hallelujah” at totally unpredictable moments. How were you supposed to follow that? How did anyone know what to do? At least in the Catholic church he could fake it, following the lead of the people around him to know when to kneel, when to stand and when to sit down again. He never knew where he should be with the Baptists.
It came as no great surprise that the clone had opted for a Catholic church funeral, but in the lab, in front of the monitor, Jeremiah found himself silently wishing for a full Baptist choir to sing her off, and everybody clapping and letting loose with an “Amen!” She would have liked that, he thought. But he knew the clone wouldn’t have entertained the idea for a moment, and neither would he have done at that point. It wouldn’t have seemed proper. He would have insisted on a certain decorum. He would have used words like dignity and reverence. Funny how he could picture himself throwing all that out the window right now. If it had been up to him, right this minute, he wouldn’t have cared what anybody thought, and everyone in that place would have been stuck shouting “Hallelujah” at the rafters, right up to God’s ears.
Brent, uncharacteristically respectful, sat beside him while he watched, dressed in a suit and tie, his lab coat in the closet and his laptop nowhere to be seen. They were silent as they watched a small procession of people enter the church. The clone, flanked by Diana and Parker, stood at the entrance and endured handshakes and tentative hugs. Both Brent and Jeremiah noted, but didn’t mention, the sparse turnout. All but the front few pews in the church were empty. They listened to a priest who had never met his mother talk about what it meant to live life well.
“Life is a gift,” he said. “As miraculous as it is brief. And we must use that gift to its fullest advantage, use our flicker of existence to make the world somehow better than it would have been without us. How do we do that? Is it through grandiose gestures of charity and service? Or rather the small acts of kindness we commit when we think no one is watching? Will we be remembered for the pomp and circumstance of our lives, those fleeting moments of greatness? Or rather for all the quiet moments when we are fully and truly present in the world and with those around us? Patricia Adams lived a quiet life. She was a mother, a sister, a friend. She did nothing that the whole world will remember her for. She will never be immortalized in poetry or song; no flags will fall to half-mast for her passing. The annals of history will not devote even a footnote to her life. But to those who knew her, Patricia made the world a better place, and she will be remembered. She will be missed. She lived fully, honestly, with a purpose and with passion. She lived not to impress, but she left an impression. She followed not the rules and obligations of the world, but the rules and obligations of her heart. She lived well.”
The words struck Jeremiah in a way he didn’t expect. Although the man didn’t know her, he spoke about her in words that rang true. Jeremiah’s mind went back to all the times his mother had tried to show him the world through her eyes, a world worth exploring, worth knowing, worth figuring out. When, he wondered, had he lost that? How had he come to be so timid and awkward in his life? As he listened to the priest, he began to look for his own quiet impact on the world. It bothered him, more than a little, that he couldn’t see it clearly. Where was the impression he’d leave? When the time came, would some priest he didn’t know stand in front of a half-empty church and talk about the cloning? The money he left behind? His big house? How he did what was expected of him, met all of his obligations? What if the best thing anyone could say of him, after everything was said and done, was that he toed the line?
The clone didn’t get up to speak at all, and Jeremiah knew it was because he just didn’t know what to say. But Jeremiah would have said something, given the chance. He would have talked about the things she sacrificed, the things she loved, the way she tried to make him a better person. He would have said he was glad she’d been his mother. He might have even taken a moment to say he was sorry he hadn’t been a better son.
For the next two hours, he and Brent watched uncomfortably as the clone attempted small talk with a smattering of distant relations he barely recognized and a few residents of the assisted living home who had come to pay their respects. Nurse Nichelle had come. She shook her head in that way she had and offered the clone a hug and whispered words of comfort that Jeremiah couldn’t hear over the monitor. For once, Jeremiah didn’t envy his clone. He looked somehow small, deflated—even on an six-foot wall. He almost wished he could help him. Finally, the clone thanked the priest for his eulogy and, sitting in that laboratory apartment, Jeremiah silently thanked him, as well, and tucked away his words for later.
A few minutes after it was over, Brent retrieved his laptop from the closet and posed to Jeremiah his usual three questions about what he’d just seen. Jeremiah’s answers, every one of them, were uttered with robotic precision and a complete detachment: “No.”
“No.”
“No.”
Chapter 22
Jeremiah had trouble sleeping again that night. For a couple of hours, he tossed and turned in bed but finally gave in sometime after midnight. He found himself in the kitchen rooting around in the fridge for something to eat. He didn’t find a thing that appealed to him. He wasn’t even really hungry. He stood in front of the open door letting his mind wander back to what the priest had said about his mother. There was something quietly satisfying about the way he’d described her, the way he focused on the many small ways her life had been important, the way he made it feel as though that had been enough. And it struck him now that, for her, it always had been enough. Growing up, Jeremiah had often felt sorry for her and had pushed away nagging feelings of guilt that she’d had to spend the best years of her life raising him on her own. He used to wonder what she might have done with her life if she’d ever had the chance. It hadn’t really occurred to him that she’d been perfectly content, that she’d considered it a valuable, good and worthwhile thing simply to know who she was and to be herself.
He was startled out of his thoughts when Brent came in through the front door and straight into the kitchen when he noticed the lights on.
“You’re still up,” he said. “Good.” He put a six-pack of craft beer on the counter.
“You’re taking an awful lot of chances with my diet,” Jeremiah told him, grabbing a beer. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? We don’t even have a viewing tomorrow. Scott, in his magnanimous kindness, has arranged a day off, remember?”
“You had a rough day,” Brent said. “Thought you might want some company.”
“Brent,” Jeremiah began. He was genuinely moved by the sentiment. “You didn’t have to do that. You have your own life. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Brent shrugged and opened a beer. “No one should be alone after his mother’s funeral,” he said. “Besides, I have a proposition for you.”
“Last time someone said those exact words to me I ended up with a clone,” he said.
“This is a different kind of proposition.”
“I don’t know, Brent. I mean, I like you and all—but I’m a married man, and think of Mel.”
“Keep dreaming, pal. You’re way too old for me.”
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Brent began, “about your mother, about how she died...your suspicions about Scott.”
“You said I was crazy, as I recall.”
“You probably are,” Brent said. “B
ut you shouldn’t have to deal with those thoughts. Not after everything that’s happened. I think we should go on a little secret mission, see what we can find out. See if we can put your mind at ease.”
“Secret mission?”
“There’s no viewing tomorrow. That means everyone’s got a little time off, right? There’s no one here except for one security guard and he’s probably asleep by now. And I know that because I split a six-pack with him just before I came here.”
“So, this is at least three beers talking, then. What exactly does this secret mission of yours entail?”
“We go into Pike’s office,” Brent said. “Hack into his computer, see what we can find out. There’s bound to be something there that will prove to you that no one is out to get you.”
“Sounds pretty risky to me,” Jeremiah said. “Not your best idea.”
“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure? You’re the one who thinks there’s all kinds of devious plots going on behind the scenes. Why not be a little devious ourselves? Why not just find out?”
“You think you can really hack into Pike’s files? With half a six-pack in you?”
Brent snickered. “Really?”
“What if we’re caught?” Jeremiah asked. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“We won’t get caught. I know where every security camera is.”
“Just like you knew about the one in Mel’s painting.”
“That’s different. No one has any reason to hide them outside your rooms. Believe me, if we stay close to the walls, right up against them, they probably won’t even pick us up on camera. But this is our only opportunity, Jeremiah. The place is empty. If you want answers, we need to get them now. Tonight. We’re not going to get another chance like this.”
Jeremiah nodded. Brent was right about one thing—he did need some answers. He needed to know what happened to his mother. He needed to know if he was going crazy, if the Meld was messing with his mind. And if there was anything in Pike’s files about Scott’s illness, he thought, Brent might be more inclined to believe this whole thing wasn’t what it appeared to be.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Do we need to put panty hose over our faces or something? Because I’m afraid I’m fresh out.”
Ten minutes later, after having inched their way down the hallway, creeping along against the walls, Jeremiah stood nervously behind Brent in the dim light of Pike’s empty office. Brent had been typing feverishly on Pike’s keyboard without any apparent success.
“Hurry up,” Jeremiah whispered.
“It’s going to take a bit of time. Calm down.”
“I am calm.”
“Then shut up and let me do this.”
“What is it you’re doing?” Jeremiah asked. “Trying to guess his password? How are you even going to do that?”
Brent turned to him with an expression of slight annoyance. “You’ve been watching too many bad spy movies,” he said. “I worked in the IT department, remember? I never changed my access codes. But I have to cover my tracks here, delete the time stamp on my actions. I can get in no problem if you’ll stop breathing on my neck.”
Jeremiah stayed where he was but turned his head a little and strained to listen for anyone coming down the hallway.
“Got it,” Brent said after another few minutes. “I’m in.”
Jeremiah peered over Brent’s shoulder and scanned the file names that appeared on the screen. He saw several with his own name attached, probably notes on his physical exams, he figured, and an entire folder devoted to “low-fat food options.”
“This one looks promising,” Brent said, pointing to a folder on the monitor. “Department of Defense Correspondence: Confidential.”
“Department of Defense?” Jeremiah said. “What the hell is Pike’s involvement with that?”
“I told you,” Brent said, “there are some powerful people involved behind the scenes. He’s probably making regular reports to someone. It doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“Open it. Let’s see what’s in there.”
Brent clicked on the icon to no avail and looked back at Jeremiah in annoyance. “You just assume something like this wouldn’t be protected with a password? For the Department of Defense? Really?”
Jeremiah grunted. “Now what do we do? Do you have that password, too?”
“No,” Brent said, “but I bet I can find it.”
He rooted around on a shelf just above Pike’s monitor until he found a thin red notebook and started riffling through the pages.
“IT got tired of the execs always locking themselves out of their own files,” he said. “So we developed this very high-tech system for them. Nice to know they’re still using it.”
He began systematically trying each password from the notebook and, in under a minute, he had access to the file.
Inside the folder were several dated files. Brent clicked on the most recent one, which was dated just two days before. It was an email exchange between Pike and an army general. They read together in shocked silence.
From: General Matthew McGavin
Re: Project Mirror update
To: Philip Pike
Dr. Pike,
We are pleased with the Meld-induced behavioral aspect of the project and look forward to a successful third test. This is of particular interest to us, as it will demonstrate parameters of control for clones of key personnel in the future. Along with viability, complete control of these clones is obviously paramount to our needs.
One presumed security risk to project now neutralized.
Keep me advised on any additional security threats. Continued funding of the project depends on no one becoming suspicious of the clone’s identity. We can handle any threats as they arise.
Gen. M. McGavin, United States Army
[email protected]
On Tuesday at 8:32 a.m., [email protected] wrote:
To: General McGavin
Attachment: Monthly report on Project Mirror
Physical viability of clone: Within expected parameters. No organ/muscular degradation.
Meld-implanted memory synapses of clone: Within expected parameters. No noted deviation.
Meld-induced behavioral testing: Two of three Meld-implanted suggestions executed successfully to date with no noted hesitation.
a. On day 21, clone made waffles for breakfast
b. On day 98, clone deviated from normal route to ViMed offices
Final test scheduled for day 239: clone will sing the third verse of “Come Fly with Me” in the hallways of ViMed offices.
Respectfully,
Dr. Philip Pike
Jeremiah read the emails over a second time and felt his stomach fall. His eyes settled on a single, sinister sentence: One presumed security risk to project now neutralized.
“A security risk? They’re talking about my mother, Brent. It’s exactly like I said. They thought she knew something and now she’s dead.”
Brent said nothing, but Jeremiah could hear him take in a deep, labored breath.
“They killed her,” Jeremiah said, his hands raking through his hair. “Neutralized. They murdered my mother. Tell me you see that.”
“I’ll admit it does look pretty bad,” he said. “But jumping right to murder? I don’t know.”
“I need a copy, Brent. Make a copy.”
“That’ll show up in the print queue,” he said. “I’ll take a picture.” He took out his phone and snapped two quick photos, adjusting the copy on the screen to make sure he got it all. Jeremiah noticed a slight tremor in his hand as he did so.
“Someone has to pay for this,” Jeremiah said. “These people are murderers. She wasn’t a threat, Brent. My mother didn’t know anything about the clone. It was just her mind. She couldn’t remember. That’s all. And they fucking k
illed her for it.”
“We don’t know anything for sure yet, Jeremiah. We need more. There’s not enough here to prove anything. We have to be careful. And we have to keep this to ourselves. Everything. I do agree that this just became dangerous.”
“But you believe me now that this whole thing is definitely more than it appears, right? That there’s something more to all of this.”
Brent nodded and turned off the computer.
“And they’re talking about clones of key personnel,” he said. “What do you suppose that means? Who are these key personnel?”
“World leaders? Diplomats? Hell, for all we know they want to clone the president.”
“And from this, it looks like they can totally control them with the Meld,” Brent added.
The Mirror Man Page 15