The Ultimate Collection of Science & Speculative Fiction Short Stories (Short SSF Stories Book 5)

by Nicholas C. Rossis

  The detective sat down across from me. “Why don’t we start at the beginning?”

  “I wanted a break.” My voice sounded hoarse. I coughed to clear it. “He started it.”

  The detective tapped his tablet and the screen came to life. “He being your clone?”

  “Yes.” I braced my forehead against my palms. A smudge on the smooth table pulled my gaze for a moment. I wiped it with my elbow.

  “So, why exactly did you need a clone?”

  How to answer that? When a friend told me of the facility, I’d laughed. And yet, his words had burrowed into my head, like one of those parasites that change you without you ever realizing it. Soon, I’d found myself unable to think of anything else. “Aren’t you overstressed?” he had asked. “Don’t you wish you could be in two places at once?”

  Hell, yeah. Who doesn’t wish for that? That and more: a chance to start all over. To leave your old life behind. A chance for a fresh beginning. And with the technology now finally available, was I to blame for jumping at the opportunity? Sure, the technology was technically illegal, but that was just a matter of regulations not having caught up yet; a victimless crime.

  How does one explain sheer exhaustion? The disgust one feels at a life that’s taken one wrong turn too many? I hadn’t taken a vacation in years. Our son had left the house years ago. We were practically strangers now. Same with Sarah. My wife and I led separate lives by then, never finding the courage to admit it was over, but never doing anything to rekindle our interest in each other either.

  No, if I had to do it all over again, I would. Even if it meant paying twice. Cloning is awfully expensive, of course, but money was not a problem. Whatever else was wrong with my life, I had amassed enough money by then to last me a dozen lifetimes.

  I wouldn’t use the old vials, though. I would have them use today’s blood; not that of three decades ago. That way, my clone would have all of my memories; not just those of happier times. In fact, I had forgotten all about those frozen crimson remnants of the past until the day I walked into the cloning facility. Until one of the doctors suggested we use the younger, fresher version of me.

  A month later, I was staring at the incubation chamber, my own face staring back at me. Artificially aged to my age, but somehow looking carefree. Fresh. A younger version of me, in spirit if not in years. I almost hated him at that point. Hated me.

  When I brought him home, I snuck him into our basement, long ago turned into the perfect man cave. He could barely wait to see Sarah. Seeing him like that had brought a bitter smile to my lips. He had all my memories up to the point Sarah and I had given blood. Still had those feelings. I secretly wished him luck. Perhaps the two of them could make it work. Perhaps they could succeed where I’d failed.

  After updating him about the main changes of the past thirty years, I sent him upstairs and poured a glass of Scotch before sitting down on my battered couch. The Scotch clinked as I plunked it on the coffee table in front of me, the sound of glass meeting crystal echoing pleasantly in the room. I reached next to me and dimmed the lamp. Leaning back on the couch, I streamed a film in my video lenses and blinked twice to start the movie. I could hardly focus, and found myself glancing at my watch every five minutes. About half an hour later, my clone burst into the room, slamming the door behind him.

  “What have you done?” he hissed.

  I frowned and blinked twice to switch the video off. “What are you talking about?”

  He pointed an accusing finger at me. “You broke her.”

  I stared at him. What was he talking about?

  “She was so much in love with me, and now there’s not even a spark.” He waved a hand dramatically. Was I really such a drama queen? “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he continued, pacing the room. “You had a good thing. And you let it crumble to nothing. How could you?”

  I shrugged, an uncomfortable sinking feeling in my stomach. Then, I felt my cheeks flush. Who was he to judge me? “You don’t know what it’s been like,” I barked at him. “I’ve been working like a dog to put our son through the best schools. To offer them everything they ever wanted. To—”

  “What Sarah ever needed is me,” he said, cutting me off.

  Never one to take lightly to being interrupted, I bolted upright and shoved a finger in his face, my other hand squeezing the glass of Scotch. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what it’s been like.”

  He yanked the glass away and sniffed it. “Is this where you drown your sorry existence? When did you start drinking, anyway?”

  I had forgotten I was teetotal at his age. God, I was a pain when I was younger. So bloody sanctimonious. I snatched the glass back, spilling most of the drink on us. I inhaled the rest of it and threw the glass on the couch. “None of your business. Now, how did it go?”

  He glared at me. “How do you think it went? She wants nothing to do with you. But…” His voice broke.

  “But you still love her.” I sank back onto the couch.

  “Of course I do. She’s my wife.”

  I studied the youthful eyes behind the aged face. He looked just like me, but his feelings were decades younger. How would I feel if someone had shown me today’s Sarah back then? Would I shrug it off like I do now, or would I feel that my life was over? That everything I thought I knew had just vanished before my very eyes? “I’m sorry,” I said. I meant it, too.

  “Keep your pity to yourself. It’s not over. I’ll just have to clean up your mess. Then Sarah and I can be together, the way we’re supposed to.”

  I shook my head. Didn’t that idiot get it? “You can’t. It’s too late. Even if you could, how would you explain your memory loss?”

  “What memory loss?”

  “You only carry my memories up to the point where we donated our blood. That’s why you’re being such a jerk. You know nothing of what’s happened since. How will you explain that to Sarah?”

  He grinned and sat down next to me. Something in his eyes made me pull back. “This”—he fished out of his pocket a silver cylinder with a little red eye at the top—“might help.”

  I squinted to study the device. Its lower end was pointy, like a syringe. I shrugged and tried to hide my curiosity. “What’s that?”

  “A portable memory transferor.” He touched something and the red eye on the cylinder started pulsing.

  “A what?”

  “This little thingy will merge our memories. I’ll remember everything you do. Only, I‘ll use your memories to win Sarah back, not get drunk in this”—he waved at the room contemptuously—“hole.”

  My jaw hung. “That’s impossible! The doctors said that memories are stored in the donor’s tissue. That’s why a clone can only have memories up to the point of donation.”

  His eyes were manic. “And yet, here it is.”

  Despite my growing apprehension at what I had released, curiosity took over for a moment. “Where did you find it?”

  “At the lab. I stole it.” He stroked the cylinder lovingly. “Perhaps it’s still experimental.”

  “If it’s still experimental, then it might not work.”

  “Or maybe it’s just waiting for FDA approval.” He ran his finger against some scratches. “This looks to have been around for a couple of years at least. It makes sense they’d want a way to update our memories, doesn’t it?”

  “How does it even work?”

  A crease formed on his forehead. “How the hell would I know? All I know is that one drop of your blood in here and your memories will be mine.”

  I shook my head. “It won’t—”

  Without warning, he jammed the pointy end into my gut. It hurt. A lot. I groaned and grasped the device. His hands pushed mine away, but I had learned a thing or two since donating that blood. I had years of practice, too. I leaned sideways and caught his thumb. I flicked my wrist around it. My martial arts instructor would have been proud of me. He screamed in pain as I twisted my body and grabbed the cylinder. His fre
e hand punched me in the face. I staggered back, crashing against the coffee table. Its crystal surface broke under my weight. Pain seared through my body as glass shards slashed my back.

  He grabbed a lamp and vaulted at me. I tried to get out of the way but only succeeded in getting the broken crystal deeper into my flesh. I grabbed a piece of glass and slashed blindly, then saw flashes as he struck me on the head with the lamp.

  The memory was so vivid that I let out a yelp and drew sharply back. The detective leaned toward me. “Mr. Smith, you look distraught. Would you like some coffee?”

  I nodded, and he left the small room for a moment. What had happened after my clone attacked me? I tried to remember, but it was all black. Next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed. Then, they brought me to the police station. Someone must have found us, called the cops. How much time had passed? What had become of my clone? Was he still in the house? With Sarah?

  I jumped up. The painkillers had to be wearing off, because my back was on fire as I banged on the dark window across from me. I could feel stitches eating into my skin. “You’ve got to let me go. My wife’s in danger.”

  I banged until the door creaked open. The detective walked in, a steaming cup in one hand, tablet in the other. The pungent aroma of police station coffee filled the room.

  I spun around to face him. “My wife—”

  He lifted a calming hand. “She’s fine, Mr. Smith. She’s right here in the station. Please, sit down.” Ignoring my agitation, he handed me my cup before sitting down.

  I mimicked him and sat down on the other side of the table. I absentmindedly took a sip. The hot liquid burned my lips and tongue. I hastened to swallow, singeing my throat in the process. Scowling, I put the cup down. To my dismay, my hands were trembling.

  The door opened again, and an expressionless woman entered the room. She was dressed in white, reminding me instantly of a nurse.

  “We just need to run some tests,” the detective told me, tapping a tablet stylus on the desk. “Make sure you’re drug free and all that. Do you consent?”

  Without a word, I lifted my sleeve and laid my arm on the table’s smooth surface. She pricked a vein with a pen-like device and nodded her thanks before disappearing into the corridor.

  The detective pulled out a small box with a light at the top and placed it on the table. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you needed a clone?”

  I let out a small sigh. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  The device blinked green once. “Good, you’re telling the truth,” he said.

  “Is that…?”

  “Just something to let us know if you’re lying. Please, continue.”

  Shaken by the blinking light, I told him everything. About Sarah, about the cloning facility, about my homicidal clone. Everything. I didn’t care anymore. If they wanted to book me for going to that place, so be it. All I wanted was to keep Sarah safe. To know that I hadn’t screwed that up, too.

  With every sentence I uttered, the green light blinked in approval. When I was done, the detective sat back on his chair and chewed the top of his stylus. “That’s the craziest story I’ve ever heard. And yet…” He grabbed the tablet and flicked his finger across its screen. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were called by your wife. She heard shouts from the basement. Went to investigate. She saw two of you:, one dead, one dying.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “Oh, God. I need to talk to her. I need to explain.”

  “We will need all the information you can get us on the cloning facility. But if you cooperate, I promise to—”

  The tablet chimed, interrupting him. His brow furrowed as he examined it. “The lab results are in. Everything’s fine, except…”

  I drummed my fingers against the table. I couldn’t wait to be out of there. Tell them everything they needed to know, so I could be with Sarah. “Except?”

  “Well, the other man we found at your house was indeed a clone. Our lab has ways to verify that, you know.”

  “Good! So you know I’m telling the truth.”

  He looked at the blinking green light that confirmed my words. “As you know it.” He showed me the tablet. Meaningless lines and numbers filled its surface. “You see, Mr. Smith, you, too, are a clone.”

  The room spun as I leaned back and crossed my arms. “That can’t be.”

  “According to this, you’re about one year old. Also, we found a second memory thingy at your house. In your basement, in fact.”

  “But I am Smith.” I pointed at the reassuring green light.

  “I believe you. Or at least, I believe that’s what you think.” He stared at me with sad eyes. “I think you killed the real Mr. Smith last year. You then merged your memories. Somehow, that deleted the memory of you killing him. Was it a glitch, or did you do that on purpose?”

  “I…” My voice caught.

  He lifted his shoulder in a one-sided shrug. “The doctors will tell us more, I’m sure. Right now, I’m afraid I have no choice.” He stood up and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “Mr. Smith, you’re under arrest for the murder of Mr. Smith and the death of Mr. Smith.”

  “I want my lawyer,” I shouted as he grabbed my wrists.

  “As is your right.” A smile played on his lips as the handcuffs clicked shut. “Smith vs. Smith vs. Smith. Unless your wife is part of the trial. Then it’s Smith vs. Smith vs. Smith vs. Smith.” He let out a dry chuckle. “You’re about to make your lawyer a very happy man.”

  Honest Fibs

  “Gotta love them lawyers.” I pull back the lever as we approach the trawler, thankful that the engine’s roar finally stops assaulting my ears. A sudden ray of sunlight blinds me. It bursts out of thinning clouds, the leaden veil lifting as fast as it had descended. What’s with the weather today? I shield my eyes with my palm to scan the vessel.

  “Grab a rope,” I yell to Bob, who’s standing at the rail, gawking at the trawler. He seems paler than I remember.

  He manages to almost tie himself up into a knot, so I motion him over and hand him the rudder. “Take us starboard and keep her steady. Keep an eye on the transducer. We don’t want to hit the reef.”

  He blinks in confusion.

  I stare into his eyes. “Take us to the right of the trawler. Can you do that?”

  He nods.

  “Don’t let this reading”—I point to the transducer—“go under ten.”

  Again, he bobs his head.

  I pick up the line and jump to the rail. “We're sagging,” I yell.

  “What?”

  Christ, Bob. “We’re sliding. Drifting off course.”

  “Oh.”

  The boat tugs starboard, and we almost hit the trawler. Our rubrails skid against each other. “Stop!” I hop over the rail and onto the trawler’s deck to tie the line. With a tug, I make sure it won’t come loose.

  “Take us out and drop anchor,” I shout. The last thing I want is for the waves to throw us both to the reef.

  He’s not as dumb as he looks, and we finally get some distance between us and the reef’s teeth. Once I feel safe, I walk around the trawler. A net in the stern is full of fish, but there’s not a soul to be found. Satisfied there’s no one there, I head back to the bow. “Hello? We’re from the Sea Serpent. We received your call.”

  No answer.

  The wheelhouse is empty. Whoever was on the radio is no longer here. Scratching my head, I walk around the ship once more before heading down to the dive deck. “Hello?” I pause to let my eyes get used to the darkness.

  Twang! A spear embeds itself in the wood, inches from my head. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. I dive onto the floor. “We’re here to help,” I cry out.

  Silence.

  A door creaks open. An old, disheveled man limps into the corridor, a loaded speargun in his hands. My heart thuds in my chest.

  “Oh, thank God,” he says, lowering the spear
gun.

  I jump to my feet and snatch it from him before wiping stinging beads of sweat from my eyes. “What the hell, man?”

  He stumbles and almost crashes to the floor. “I’m sorry! I thought you were one of them.”

  I catch him with one hand. He’s too heavy, so I throw the speargun down and hook one arm around his, my other arm around his shoulders. “Them?”

  “The squids,” he mutters, then bites his lip. “I mean, pirates.”

  My eyebrows fly up. “Pirates? In these waters?”

  “Yeah, pirates,” he snaps at me. “That’s what I said, innit?” He avoids my eyes.

  I pull him toward the deck and he lets out a pained cry.

  “My leg,” he says, and points at his ankle.

  His foot is at a weird angle. It doesn’t take a doctor to see something’s wrong. “Looks broken.”

  He nods.

  I let him lean on me and lead him to the deck, his words churning in my head. There haven’t been any pirates in these waters in centuries, and I should know—I’m out here every other weekend. What the hell is going on?

  I wait for him to hop onto the first step. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

  “Told ya. The pirates got them.”

  I’m starting to lose my patience. As soon as we hit the deck, I grab him by the shoulders. “Look, old man, there’s no pirates. Haven’t been in ages. So, why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”

  In the light, I notice his frail features and white hair, and a pang of guilt hits me. He’s probably in pain. But I need to know what happened. I refuse to let go, though. If there’s danger nearby, I need to protect us. His lips and unshaven chin tremble, as if words are trying to escape his throat. His clothes are cheap and practical, but clean. His breath smells fresh. Our gazes lock. I hold mine steady for a good minute, before he looks down.

  “You won’t believe me, anyway,” he mumbles.

  “Try me.”

  He slumps onto the deck and straightens his injured foot. I sit down next to him. His gaze fixes at a point in the distance. He inhales a deep breath before reaching some sort of decision. “Very well.” His words come out slow, trembling. “Name’s Jim. I’ve been fishing these waters since before you were a glint in your horny dad’s eye.”