Damned Lies!

by Dennis Liggio

  "Yes," he said. We both stared into space thinking.

  You might be wondering what we were talking about, or more accurately, talking around. It's a hard subject to explain, since nobody wants to believe me.

  No, it wasn't my fictional brother Zeppo. But good guess from Margaret in Peoria, Illinois. You've just won yourself a T-shirt and a copy of the home game. Everyone give her a round of applause.

  For everyone else, gather around and hear my story. I said you won't believe it and you won't. So I might as well come right out with it.

  I cloned myself in high school.

  June, 1994 - Long Island, New York

  It was just before the summer between high school and college. Graduation was next weekend, and while I had a job that would last through the summer, my life was otherwise uneventful. Mind-numbingly boring uneventful. We were about to go into that even more boring transitional summer after college, where your town turns into a ghost town and your friends are unavailable. Some friends would begin to move away, getting a short term apartment and a job near their prospective college. Others would throw themselves fervently into their summer jobs, hoping to make enough money to feel slightly less poor in college. Others would disappear on adventures, something I was very envious of. An adventure before college sounded exactly what I needed. But I also had to be one of those people to buckle down over the summer and make some cash for college. It was my first taste of adulthood, where desires and responsibility directly conflicted.

  I honestly don't remember where the clone idea came from. It wasn't some diabolical urge to subvert the laws of nature, nor a lifelong desire that had festered my whole life. The idea just popped into my head one day. And I do remember the exact day. Bruce and I were sitting in his parents' basement, talking about random shit and playing the fighting game Killer Instinct on his video game system. He was kicking my ass in it, which happened more often than I would like. The requisite taunting the loser rule was in full effect, so I always had to sit through his lame taunts before we started the next round of the game.

  I leaned back in my beanbag chair. "So what are you going to be doing next year?" I asked.

  "College, I guess," he said. "Y'know, I did apply, spend months agonizing over, and then got accepted to a prestigious university, remember?"

  "And next summer?" I prodded, trying to be Socratic by asking leading questions about what we both knew I was already aware of.

  "Dunno, a college job? I come back here and do nothing like a townie? Shit, I don't know. Probably something college-focused, college-involved, or working around college constraints. Everything relates to college in some way for the next four years of my life."

  "And what are you going to do after college?" I asked, still feeling like a badass pre-hemlock Socrates.

  He shrugged. "A job I guess. Start a career based on the skills I learned. Maybe an internship or something. I'm sure it will be more clear after a few years of college."

  "So you're not planning any time off at all? You're going to go to college and get locked into a track for life?"

  "That's a really bleak way to put it," he said. "Is that really what you think of adulthood?"

  "But that's what media has told me," I said. He made a face at me, but I continued. "No really. Have you seen all those movies bitter about real life? All these movies, books, TV shows were made by adults. Not just that, adults living with regret! This was their warning sign to youth, their bitter epitaphs on their midlife tombstone! Think about it. This might be the last real freedom we have. After that we go to college and get put on career tracks. Even if we have time off, we have to schedule it, get time off work, keep it under two weeks, etc. You can't just go somewhere spontaneously. You're not free. You have brief moments of very particularly scheduled time off."

  "You've been really thinking about this," he said. "What would you do if you were not spending the summer here?"

  "Travel, maybe. I could go on some crazy adventure. But we both know I really can't, cause I need the money I make this summer for college. Beer money, bail money, random sundries money. I don't want to be the only college kid without beer."

  "That would be a tragedy," he said dryly. "No travel for you, then."

  "If only I could be here and take the trip," I said. I frowned and stared off into space. Bruce took this opportunity to kill me again in the game.

  "I need a clone," I said, mostly talking out loud.

  "Well, don't you have that Evil Twin[3] across town?" he said.

  "No, not like that. First off, he hates me and wouldn't do me any favors. Second, I want a real clone. One that is like me in every possible way, except he's going to work my damn job and stay here, thus allowing me the freedom to exit stage left. And then my epic journey would begin." I zoned out again and after some unknown period of time returned to the conversation. "You're good at science, right? Could you make me a clone?"

  "A clone?" he said incredulously. "You do realize that's impossible, right?"

  "Nah," I countered, "it can't be too hard. Movies have them all the time. That tells me it's clearly just a theoretical concept that someone just needs to implement. I'll make it worth your while. I'll give you ten percent of the clone's wages if you make one."

  "It's not an issue of money," he said in exasperation. "No one has ever cloned a human being. They're not even sure it would be possible. Even if they managed to make an exact genetic duplicate of yourself, it'd be a baby and would have to grow for seventeen years. And even after that time, it wouldn't have your memories and might have a completely different personality."

  "Then just duplicate me," I said. "Like with some sort of transporter accident. I'm also fine with limitations. In fact, it would be more convenient if it's one of those duplicates that just live for a few months and just dissolve."

  "Transporters don't exist!"

  "Yet, my friend, yet! Look to the future!"

  "I thought you wanted one now?" he said.

  "Good point. Time paradox?"

  "No! Also impossible!"

  "Geez, are you going to shoot down every idea I have? Talk about a negative personality. You should be supportive of my creative process. Besides, ten percent of a clone's wages isn't a bad offer."

  "You're asking the impossible," he said flatly.

  "Okay, twenty percent. But that's my final offer."

  Bruce sighed heavily. "Okay, I'll see what I can do."

  Bruce called me the day before graduation and invited me over to his house. When he met me at the door, he explained that while he was unable to clone me, his little brother Victor had a few ideas on the subject. After my initial conversation with Bruce, he had put Victor on the problem. Victor had been working on the task all week in the basement, which he would not allow anyone into. He said all this as we walked to the basement door.

  "Brace yourself," Bruce said.

  The basement looked vastly different than it had a week ago. The outdated rumpus room furniture had been replaced at the stairwell by opened boxes and overflowing packing popcorn. Beyond that I felt like I was entering into a laboratory. Most of the furniture had been replaced with computer screens and large, impressive-looking machines with knobs and buttons and blinking lights. The machines looked both odd and new. I spent a long moment staring up at a fully functional Tesla coil, marveling at the sound and sparks.

  "Wow, this stuff is so cool!" I said.

  "That?" said Bruce, looking at the Tesla coil. "That's not even part of it. That's just something we got for when our sister is stoned. Vic, tell him everything that you told me."

  "The apparatus is over here," said Victor. Fifteen years old, pale, and wearing safety goggles, I'd seen Vic around for years, but he mostly kept to himself in his room. The few times I interacted with him directly, I found him simply odd.

  "The apparatus?" I said. "Who are you, Dr. Frankenstein?"

  Victor scowled at me. "I'll take no criticisms. When you make the affront to the laws of nature,
then you get to name the equipment."

  He led me over to a large standing glass tube attached with wires and cables to various machines around the room. A computer with three large monitors was setup next to the largest machine. The tube was big enough to fit a person. There was a very obvious glass door on the tube. I noticed a smell. It was almost like brimstone, but not strong - just a faint background scent that prickled my nose.

  I knew exactly what the tube was for and sized it up. "So this will clone me?"

  "Technically," said Victor, "it will make a copy of you and transform that into data. Then we grab the atoms in the air, imprint that data to reorganize the atoms, then reshuffle them to a copy of your body and mind."

  "You came up with all that in just a week?" I asked.

  "More or less," he said, adjusting his safety goggles. "I already had a few ideas, but nothing proofed out. I had enough to get started with. Since my lab in my room would be inadequate for this, I spent most of the week building and setting this all up."

  "But it can create another me right out of nothing? It seems like if you could do that, you'd win a Nobel prize or something."

  "Not out of nothing," corrected Victor. "Ex Nihilo is impossible. We're just taking matter, in this case air, and then changing it."

  "That's pretty damn impressive," I said. "This is going to change the world."

  "Technically, this isn't something I would want to share with others. I'm not sure they would approve. For example, there are some consequences," he said vaguely.

  "Like what?"

  "Oh," he said, looking at a clip board. "I calculated there's a 67% chance that doing this will cause an orphanage in Lima, Peru to spontaneously combust."

  "What?"

  "It's just theoretical, of course," he said.

  "Oh, that's a relief," I said. "So the theory could just be wrong?"

  "Correct," he responded. "I'd have to do a few more tests to confirm causation. Those orphanage fires I saw on CNN could have simply been coincidental. One or two fires are within the margin of error."

  "Are you kidding me?" I said, looking at Bruce. He shook his head no. My eyes went wide. Bruce simply shrugged and gave me a that's-just-my-little-brother look.

  "I'm more concerned with the power usage during operation," said Victor.

  "Oh yeah, with all these machines, I bet your parents are freaking about the electric bill," I said.

  "It doesn't run on electricity," said Victor strangely as he flipped pages on his clipboard.

  "What does it run on? Orphans?" I said sarcastically.

  "Oh no, of course not," he said.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  "It consumes hope, positive feelings, goodwill, that sort of thing," said Victor, still looking through the clip board.

  I turned back to Bruce. "What. The. Hell."

  "It's what you wanted," Bruce said, amused at my discomfort.

  "I didn't know I'd need to burn the world down to do it!" I yelled.

  "Technically, the world won't burn," interjected Vic. "The world itself is mostly nonflammable. Parts of it can burn, but the world itself isn’t in danger of burning.” He paused. “The world will just become a less hopeful place each time the apparatus is used."

  I shot Bruce a do-you-see-what-I-fucking-mean look.

  "Look, this is exactly what you asked for, so I'm not sure why you're complaining," said Bruce. "Besides, I had to front a little money for all this equipment. There's no way Vic could have afforded all this on his own. So I really need to get that twenty percent of wages."

  "But doesn't this thing freak you out?" I said.

  "Honestly? I'm used to my brother being a little creepy," said Bruce. Victor had no reaction, he continued checking his clipboard and the machines. "That's just how things are. But I don't think it's all true. He likes playing things up. Don't worry about it. I mean, have some balls. You asked for the impossible, and we delivered. If you back out, it's on you. I'll still want twenty percent of what you make this summer. I'm not losing my money based on your ball-lessness."

  I narrowed my eyes at him, but sighed. "Alright, alright. I'm in. What do I need to do?"

  Victor opened the door on the tube. "Please step inside."

  Reluctantly I stepped into the tube. The brimstone smell was much stronger inside. I took a deep breath for courage and they closed the door. It was uncomfortably cramped. If the glass was opaque, I would have been suffering from grade A claustrophobia. As it was, I wished they had cleaned the glass better. It was dirty and I couldn't see them well.

  Victor was typing on the computer while Bruce looked over his shoulder. I'm not sure if I was running out of air or I panicked from perceived lack of air, but I had trouble breathing. I tried banging on the glass, but I discovered it was actually plastic and much thicker than I thought. My fist barely made a sound.

  In a moment, some type of yellow smoke or mist began filling the tube from below. I banged on the tube harder, but I still failed to get their attention. I screamed, but I'm sure I was the only one who heard it. My breathing grew more difficult as the mist filled the tube, obscuring my view.

  Soon I couldn’t breathe anymore. I blacked out.

  I woke up staring at the sizzling light of the Tesla coil. I lay on an old couch on the other side of the basement. I was dizzy and my limbs felt tingly, like they'd fallen asleep and become numb. I pulled myself to sitting posture and rubbed my eyes. Across the room Victor still sat at the computer while Bruce looked over his shoulder.

  I pulled myself to my feet. Everything was so bright in the room, all the colors so vivid, like I had never noticed just how dazzling they were before. I was still dizzy, but I staggered over to Bruce and managed to grunt. He turned to me and smiled. “Almost done,” he said, pointing to the tube.

  Inside the tube, leaning to one side and unconscious was me. Words don't describe how strange experience an experience it was. We see ourselves only in mirrors and pictures, maybe the odd video. But to see ourselves right before us, where we can circle for a different angle is just a bizarre experience. It wasn't a twin or a mannequin. I knew I was looking at myself. “It looks just like me,” I managed. It was a stupidly obvious thing to say.

  Bruce nodded and smiled oddly. “Yeah.”

  “And there’s only a 36% chance that he’s homicidal,” said Victor.

  Graduation Day

  June, 1994 - Long Island, New York

  It was at my high school graduation that I first began to suspect my clone might be evil.

  Oh, you might say I should have known that when Victor gave his estimate of a 36% chance the clone was homicidal, but I was willing to overlook that. First off, that's only a one in three chance of homicidal tendencies, and he might not even act on those impulses. Second, who can really say that all homicide is bad? What if he killed a serial killer? The karmic math might work out to him being saintly. Third, there was every possibility that Victor was just trying to scare me, and I was not going to give him the satisfaction of being right.

  Graduation was the day after the clone was created. My clone was under strict orders to stay home and out of sight. As soon as the clone had woken in the tube, I made it very clear that I was the real me and in command. He, as the copy, was on bitch duty. Of course, he didn't respond well to this treatment at first, but I had irrefutable logic. Also, I wouldn't let him out of the tube until he agreed, so I had all the cards.

  I went over to Bruce's house before graduation. My family was driving to the ceremony later and I was riding with Bruce. All graduates had to get there early and stand in a prearranged line. I got all dressed up before I left home. My high school eschewed the traditional cap and gown in favor of something a little more classy. All the men were required to wear white tuxes, complete with black bow tie, while the ladies were required to wear white dresses. While it often seemed like a scene from a GQ ad, overall it worked.

  Bruce opened the door and paused for a second. “You look like Jame
s Bond,” he said.

  I smiled with the compliment and smoothed my sleeves, feeling slick.

  “Or the waiter at someplace Grandma would take us,” said Victor vaguely from inside.

  I frowned and waited for Bruce to grab his jacket. Though his white tux was a twin of mine, he didn’t wear it as well. He looked like the fourth member of the groom’s wedding party, the guy pulled in just so there are enough groomsmen to match all the bridesmaids. “Let’s go,” he said.

  While we drove to the school, he let me know how prom had been. My high school was weird. For some reason, they had prom the very night before graduation. Other schools had a week or two gap or even had prom after graduation. But ours was the night before, which always seemed a bad idea with all the drinking and partying that typical;y went with prom. I expected to see quite a few hung over people at graduation. Bruce looked just the same as when I saw him the day before. Either he didn’t drink or he had an iron liver.

  “Prom was fun,” he said. “Jill and I shared a limo with Claudia and Phil, then drank a little at Jill’s parents’ beach house.”

  “Claudia went with Phil? Seriously?”

  “Oh, you didn’t know?” he said with a smirk. “Yeah. I don’t think they’re actually dating, though.” He paused. “Jill told me that Claudia had really wanted you to ask her to prom.”

  I cursed.

  Claudia had been the subject of my crush for half a year. We laughed a bit in school, we were part of the same after school club, and I even made her a goddamn mix tape. At no time did she get the message that I was interested. I even suggested the movies a few times, but always let that idea sputter out when she kept mentioning friends to invite. I used to cut class to hang out with her in study hall; a risky action, since her study hall room was right next to the school office. Honestly, in retrospect I realize that unless I had said directly to her, “Do. You. Want. To. Go. On. A. Date,” she may never have gotten the message. And I was too awkward a teen to be that direct with girls.