by M A Gelsey
“Ed is fine,” said Edgar Prime, shrugging Dr. Midas’s arm off his shoulders.
“Asserting his independence,” commented Dr. Yang with a smirk.
“As well he should!” Dr. Midas said.
Edgar Prime couldn’t remember him ever being in such a jovial mood.
“He’ll be the one to take up the mantle once I’m gone, so to speak. Independent thought and intellectual curiosity are essential to the heir apparent of Midas Labs. Edgar Prime has both in spades — and small wonder since he’s an exact genetic copy of the man who created him! You can quote me on that,” Dr. Midas told Blair.
“Why, thank you,” Blair said. Edgar Prime restrained himself from rolling his eyes with difficulty, and began tiptoeing away from Dr. Midas. It was possible that Dr. Yang noticed this and decided to help Edgar Prime out with a diversion, because he chose that moment to ask Dr. Midas whether he’d heard about the scandalous divorce of one of their old MIT fraternity brothers, and immediately launched into the story which featured a multi-billion dollar settlement and reciprocal attempted murders.
Edgar Prime made his way back into the corner where he found Patrice flirting with one of the panelists due to give a talk the following afternoon. She winked at him over the man’s shoulder, and shortly thereafter the two of them disappeared together, sharing a taxi back to the hotel. Not sure what to make of this considering what Patrice had told him on the flight about her long-term boyfriend, Edgar Prime circled the room aimlessly. Alone in the crowd, he thought maybe he’d stayed long enough to be polite and could slip away unnoticed too. It seemed that he was not the only one thinking along these lines. Dr. Midas and Dr. Yang were leaving as well, and as he exited the building Edgar Prime saw them kiss in the back of a taxi as it pulled away from the curb.
“What happens at the I.C.G. stays at the I.C.G.,” Harlow said from behind him with a hearty guffaw. Edgar Prime jumped, not having heard his approach.
“I guess so,” Edgar Prime said.
“You don’t seem to be taking advantage of your rock star status, Prime. Intimidated by all the fine researchers around us? Ha! You shouldn’t be. They’re only human, after all.” Harlow chuckled at that.
“Nobody here thinks I’m a rock star,” Edgar Prime said.
“You need to sharpen up your observation skills,” Harlow said. “The hangers-on have been lurking after you all night. You could go home with any of them in an instant if you wanted to.”
“And what about you?” Edgar Prime said. “Why aren’t you enjoying the — the scenery?” He stepped closer to the curb and stuck his arm out to hail a taxi.
“Who says I’m not?” Harlow’s eyes gleamed.
A taxi pulled up. Edgar Prime stood by uncertainly, thinking that it might be bad manners for him not to offer the first taxi to Harlow.
“Your ride is here kid,” Harlow said. A stretch limousine pulled up behind the taxi. “This is me.”
Edgar Prime clambered into the taxi as the door to Harlow’s limo automatically swung open for him. He saw Edgar Prime looking and gave him a mock salute before climbing into the limo and driving off into the night. It was only then that Edgar Prime noticed the small knot of anti-cloning protesters watching him from a square across the street with their homemade signs. For a moment, he forgot where he was going, but after the automated voice asked him twice he blurted out the name of the hotel, and stared back at the protestors’ silent vigil in the taxi’s wing mirror until they disappeared from view.
27: ANNABEL
At first, Annabel thought Mrs. Lennox handed her the envelope by accident. She had heard the mail carrier drone make the delivery, but had assumed it belonged to Rex. For a moment after reading her own name above the address, Annabel only stared — she had never gotten a single piece of mail her whole life — but then she clutched the letter to her chest and hurried outside to the balcony without even saying thank you to Mrs. Lennox. In her favorite chair facing the bay she tore open the envelope quickly, burning with curiosity.
Inside was a short typed letter, inviting her to be interviewed for 2100 magazine as part of a piece about the first three clones. The letter was signed by somebody named Arthur Blair. It was strange to think that there were others who knew about her, that a major magazine even wanted to interview her for an article that who knows how many people would read.
Accompanying the article would be a photo shoot with the three clones together. That was what really piqued her interest. Not the idea of being photographed, which made Annabel feel vaguely uncomfortable, but the prospect of meeting the others. She had always wondered about her fellow clones, but had never before had an opportunity to meet one. The thought was exciting and nerve-wracking at the same time.
She pulled out her tablet and did a quick search. The only information she was able to find was about the first-ever clone, a copy of the father of human cloning, Dr. Edgar Midas. He had named his clone ‘Edgar Prime’ and was still conducting research with him at Midas Labs. The name made Annabel shiver slightly as she realized that this was the place where she had been conceived. It was strange to contemplate.
Annabel next tried searching her own name, but the only things that came up were about her original — the first Annabel King. While Annabel already knew a fair amount about her original through Ms. Durant, it was learned in the context of shaping Annabel into the clone wife that Rex had paid for, a copy of his lost love. But this was different somehow, reading about her on google. Before, she had only thought of her original in relation to Rex but here, Annabel saw, there was evidence that she was her own person as well. There wasn’t much — a small piece here or there about an opening at her art gallery, some blog posts she’d written reviewing various artists — but it made her seem real in a way she never quite had before.
There was nothing readily available that mentioned Annabel the clone though. Obviously some people had to know about it since the 2100 magazine reporter had requested an interview, but it seemed her existence was not widely acknowledged. Annabel supposed the people who paid so much to have a clone made might not want publicity. It was then that she began to feel wary about Rex’s reaction to the interview invitation.
The more she thought about it, the more she knew he’d be opposed to the idea. Would he go so far as to forbid her to participate? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. She knew she’d have to be careful how she brought it up, find a way to persuade him that it was a benign idea — one that would not reflect poorly on him. She thought about it for a time and decided her best strategy would be to feign nonchalance and downplay the invitation as much as possible. Having decided, Annabel turned to her online Arts of Renaissance Europe class. It was one of several she had enrolled in; the others were International Relations and Intro to Physics. Rex had scoffed slightly at the last one and reminded her that she hated science. She didn’t argue but added it to her course schedule anyway, reasoning that just because the original Annabel had hated science didn’t mean she would too.
Annabel listened to a lecture on Artemisia Gentileschi and watched the painting slide show diligently, but she wasn’t as engaged as usual. Underneath, she kept thinking about the interview, the prospect of meeting two other clones, and the apprehension of trying to convince Rex to allow her to do it. Her stomach clenched and unclenched as her plan ran through her mind over and over again on an endless loop despite her best efforts to focus on the art history lecture. Annabel switched to a physics lecture, but didn’t have much more luck learning about Newton’s Three Laws of Motion than she had learning about Judith Slaying Holofernes.
Mrs. Lennox called her in for lunch, and she kept the envelope with the letter clutched in a sweaty palm. Rex seemed preoccupied when they sat down, and Annabel saw her opening.
“This came today,” she said in as casual a voice as she could muster. She tossed the envelope onto the table as though it was of no real importance to her.
“What is it?” Rex asked, ladling some of th
e miso soup Mrs. Lennox had prepared into their bowls.
Annabel shrugged. “Some reporter is writing an article about the first three clones, and he wants to do an interview. Nothing big, I don’t think. Most of it will probably be about the scientists behind it all.”
Rex’s spoon froze halfway to his mouth. “Out of the question.”
“But —”
“What is wrong with you, Annabel? Our private affairs have no place in — which rag wanted to do the story?”
“2100 magazine,” Annabel said reluctantly.
Rex made a disparaging noise and gulped down another spoon of his soup. “What nonsense.”
“But what’s the harm —”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Rex’s eyes narrowed. “It’s out of the question. I don’t want to hear another word about you talking to any reporters. Ever. Is that understood?”
Annabel choked on her frustrated shame in silence. With a short nod she let the subject drop.
28: JAVI
Neither of Javi’s parents spoke to him about the argument for the rest of the week. His mother didn’t speak to him at all, and his father only spoke about the most superficial of topics: the weather, his favorite TV shows, march madness — always in a falsely jovial voice. Most of the time, they both seemed to avoid him. He supposed they thought it was easier that way. Javi spent a lot of time in his room listening to metal and watching porn.
The guilt of his confrontation with his parents was eating Javi alive, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize for it. He hadn’t even told them about the phone conversation he’d had with Arthur Blair after impulsively deciding to do the interview. Blair’s assistant had answered the phone on the third ring.
“Arthur Blair’s office,” he said in a bored but professional voice.
“Um,” Javi said. “My name is Javier Vasquez. I’m returning Mr. Blair’s call —”
“One moment,” said the assistant.
There was a click, and Blair introduced himself almost immediately. “I’m very glad you called, Javier. Do you go by Javier, or something else?”
“Javi usually,” Javi said.
“Javi it is!” Arthur Blair had a painfully eager voice that made Javi want to cringe. “I’d like to fly out and conduct your interview in person sometime next week if that works for you.”
“Okay,” Javi said nervously.
“Don’t worry, I’ll work around any school commitments you have,” Blair said. “But it’s always best to get a sense of the environment a subject inhabits — gives the whole thing more color.”
“Right,” Javi said, not sure he knew what the man was talking about.
“Then we’ll have you fly to New York for a weekend to do the photo shoot with the other clones.”
“I — what?” Javi thought he’d misheard. The other clones?
“If you’re unable to come, we can photograph you closer to home and digitally insert you in with the other two being profiled,” Blair said. “But if possible we’d really like to do the shoot with all three of you together so that you can meet and interact naturally for the pictures. And of course we’ll cover your travel expenses.”
“Um, okay,” Javi said, barely aware of what he was agreeing to. He wasn’t sure why the casual mention of other clones was so jarring — he had always known he wasn’t the only one.
“Excellent!” Blair said. “I’ll have my assistant contact you to finalize the details.”
“Okay,” Javi said again.
“I look forward to meeting you, Javi.” It was only after they hung up that Javi began to wonder what he had gotten himself into.
All of this together left Javi moody and withdrawn for the rest of the week, and he found himself alone at his computer on Friday afternoon. He wasn’t sure what made him search for her home address, but before he knew it he was putting it into his phone’s GPS and heading outside. He had just missed the bus, but the walk was only about twenty minutes. The time passed quickly, and suddenly he was standing outside a single story Spanish style house. The front yard was a large vegetable garden replete with tomatoes, several types of squash, strawberries, and various leafy greens, with a winding path leading up from the sidewalk to the front door. There was even a lemon tree that gave the air a clean, pleasantly tart scent. Javi hesitated, then took a deep breath and walked up to knock.
For a moment there was no answer, and Javi wondered if she was out. Then the door opened to reveal a little girl, no more than seven. Javi’s mouth fell open and he mentally kicked himself for not realizing — she’d mentioned that she had kids when they spoke in the park after all.
“Who are you?” the girl asked. She looked up at him quizzically. She had the same gray eyes as her mother, but her hair was sandy blonde.
“I — my name is Javi. Is your mom here?” Javi heard himself asking. He sounded calm, despite his inner panic. Part of him wanted to flee, but something kept him rooted to the spot.
“Who’s there, Bryony?” Imogen called from the back of the house.
“Someone named Javi!” yelled Bryony. For a moment she studied Javi, and he felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “He says he’s here to see you,” she added, twisting around to yell back to wherever her mother was. Just like that, she lost interest in Javi and wandered off, leaving him alone on the front step with the door hanging open.
Somewhere inside the house he could hear the sound of a robot vacuum, and the joyous shrieks of two small children raucously playing together. Javi had almost convinced himself to turn around and leave when Imogen appeared, wearing charcoal leggings and a loose-fitting pink shirt, her hair wet presumably from a shower. There was a long pause; she just looked at him.
“D’you want to come in?” she asked finally. “I just made lemonade.”
“Um,” Javi said, mentally kicking himself for acting on this stupid impulse. “Lemonade would be great, thanks.” He followed Imogen across the threshold and closed the door behind him. She led him through the house and into the kitchen where she poured homemade lemonade for him and iced green tea for herself.
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said, as they sat down together at the gleaming cherrywood table.
“I — yeah, I dunno what I was thinking, I’m sorry. I’ll go.” Javi made to stand up, but Imogen placed a hand on his arm to stop him.
“No need to rush off. You haven’t even tried my lemonade yet.”
Javi relaxed back into his seat and took a sip. It was the perfect balance of tart and sweet, everything lemonade should be. “It’s good,” Javi said, and she smiled appreciatively. He took another sip. There was a brief silence, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as before. Eventually Javi said, “This is a nice house.”
“It is, isn’t it? We bought it last year when we moved back here.”
“Where did you live before?” Javi asked.
“All over,” Imogen said. “Edinburgh, Shanghai, Buenos Aires, Sydney, L.A. Theo and I both have location independent jobs so we moved every few years. But since the girls are getting to be school-aged we thought it would be good for them to have some stability. Both our parents live nearby so the girls can spend time with their grandparents . . . good decision all around.”
“It must have been cool — living in all those places.”
Imogen shrugged. “We ended right back where we started.” Javi couldn’t tell whether she was relieved or disappointed.
“Are you going to tell me why you came?” Imogen asked. She fixed him with an intense stare, and he found couldn’t meet her eyes for more than a couple seconds at a time. He imagined that beneath the curiosity and a strange sadness there was longing in Imogen’s gaze, but he dismissed this. The last thing he needed was to confuse the Imogen he fantasized about when he was alone with the real, living, breathing one — he doubted he’d survive the humiliation of her finding him out. He swallowed and took a deep breath.
“My parents aren’t speaking to me,” Javi blurted out.
“No, no, it’s nothing to do with you. It’s because I don’t want to go to Stanford.”
Imogen gave him a twisted half-smile. “Javier — your original, I mean — he’d wanted to go since he was a child. The day he got in we —” she blushed suddenly, and dropped her eyes to the table. “Well, anyway. It meant a lot to him. But I don’t think that they’d really stop speaking to you over it. You’re all they have now.”
“They want me to be him,” muttered Javi.
The look Imogen gave him was not unkind, but it was clear that she didn’t understand what he was trying to say. “But you are him. You’re just like him. You may not want to hear that, but it’s true. I knew him better than almost anyone.”
Javi felt a morbid curiosity all of a sudden. “Do you still miss him?”
“I do.” She said it without hesitation, and for a moment, Javi couldn’t breathe. It brought back the crushing weight of his parents’ expectations, and reminded him of what a failure he was. Every thought in his head, every word that came out of his mouth, every action he took — they were all wrong. Whatever Imogen said, he wasn’t the same as his original. At best he was a poor imitation, but more often he was an endless disappointment.
“I’m not him.” Javi didn’t know if he meant it to be regretful or defiant.
“Does it really matter?” she asked.
He frowned. “I don’t know.” That answer felt wrong, but he couldn’t think how to articulate himself better— whenever Imogen leaned forward he could see down her loose-fitting shirt, and the sight of her cleavage made him feel fuzzy and distracted. Javi’s hand was resting on the table next to his lemonade glass, and she placed her hand over his. He froze; a jolt of adrenaline shot through his body at her touch.
“He was a wonderful person,” she said, tracing his fingers softly with hers. “When people compare you to him, it’s a compliment.”