The Copy

by Grant Boshoff

  Bartell lifted his chin and looked directly at May. "I presented to the world a one hundred percent lab-created clone of our three-year-old family Golden Retriever, Thaddeus."

  Murmurs bristled through the room like an autumn gust, subsiding just as abruptly when Judge Lemar lifted his eyes to the gallery. He fingered the gavel in unspoken warning.

  "And how was this revelation received by 'the world' as you put it?"

  "Not well," said Bartell. "Not well at all. The backlash was unimaginable. And swift."

  "In what way, sir?"

  "The Bioethics Alliance immediately filed suit against us. A Congressional Subcommittee was launched within a matter of days. Our offices, and even my home, were mobbed by protestors. The Christian Coalition, Green Peace, PETA, you name it, they came in droves. The public outcry was so intense that within the week, and despite the law, the FDA had filed an injunction against us to cease all experimental research."

  "You say 'despite the law', Mr. Bartell. Do you mean to imply that your research was not in violation of extant legislation at the time?"

  "I certainly do," Bartell said, looking far less certain than he sounded. "It's a complicated matter. There has been various legislation of one kind or another regarding cloning since the nineties, however there exists to date no federal ban on cloning as such. Some states have implemented outright bans while others denied public funding for research. The boundaries have fluxed back and forth over the years."

  "But at that time specifically, Mr. Bartell, was there a federal ban on such research?"

  "Objection, Your Honor," McBride said rising to his feet. "Question calls for expert testimony."

  "Your Honor," responded May quickly, before the judge could rule, "the witness surely has sufficient depth of knowledge and involvement in the field to qualify as such."

  The judge rubbed his chin while he considered this, then nodded at the defense attorney. "I'll allow it. Read back the question, please."

  After the court reporter read the question, Geoffrey Bartell leaned towards the microphone and said clearly, "No, there was no federal ban on cloning nor stem cell research."

  "I see," said May, nodding sagely, "and was there, at the time, any legislation in this state outlawing such research?"

  "No, there was not."

  "Just to be clear, was there any state legislation whatsoever which might have prevented your research in any direction?"

  "There was not."

  "Thank you, Mr. Bartell. Now, what were the ramifications of this backlash against GenLabs?"

  "It almost destroyed us," said Bartell. A shadow seemed to have passed over him. His eyes took on a glassy effect and his mouth was tight as he spoke. "Customers abandoned ship due to the PR mess. Our stock price plummeted. Within weeks eighty percent of our public funding had dried up. The company was in a tailspin."

  "And what effect did this have on your personally?"

  "I was in a bad way. The company had to be salvaged, new funding sourced, new lines of research developed, and all the while I was being called to testify before congress on a recurring basis. Even working twenty hour days, which I did six out of seven, I couldn't keep up. My wife -" He stopped and looked with anguish at Camilla. A stillness filled the room as something seemed to pass between them, then Camilla carefully reached up and removed her sunglasses, set them in her lap atop the lace gloves, and lifted her eyes to her husband.

  Geoffrey swallowed, then clearing his throat continued slowly, painfully. "My wife was pregnant at the time. With our first. I desperately wanted to be with her, to console and care for her on the bad days, and share those perfect moments on the good. But-" Geoffrey swallowed hard and looked down into his lap.

  "But you couldn't, could you?"

  "No. No, I couldn't. I had responsibilities from which I couldn't turn away. Hundreds of families relied on GenLabs for their livelihood. And who knows how many more lives we would touch through our research, how many millions who might have a future because of the work we were doing." Geoffrey shook his head, slowly as if he carried the weight of the world upon him. "I couldn't turn my back on them."

  "So you came up with a solution, didn't you?"

  "Yes," Geoffrey said evenly, "yes I did."

  "And might I presume this to be mistake number two, this solution?"

  "Yes. Although I didn't think so at the time. I only saw a way out; a way to do everything that needed doing; to maintain equilibrium in my life."

  "And this solution was to clone yourself, was it not?"

  "Yes it was. After the FDA injunction I'd had all equipment and materials relocated to my private lab - on the floor above my office. In those days I spent most of my time, when not in DC, in my office, sleeping on the couch a handful of hours a night. Often I couldn't sleep at all and would go up to my lab and lament over what could have been. I'm not sure even when I had the idea. It just seemed to grow organically out of the circumstances, but I found myself - before I'd even formalized it as a plan - sketching out equations and researching developments in neuroscience. I knew I had the ability to clone the body, but I needed to replicate my own consciousness as well, in order to create a true copy."

  "And you accomplished this, did you not, Mr. Bartell?"

  "I did."

  "When exactly?"

  "I tried right away - within a month. I built a cerebrum scanner using an experimental neuro-imaging device we'd shelved some years before. Surprisingly, it worked on the first try. But I was too rushed, too frantic. And too overconfident. As it turned out, the DNA structure wouldn't hold long enough to develop a full-size human body."

  "So, when exactly did you produce the copy of yourself that we are speaking of today?"

  "Six months ago."

  "Six months ago?" said May with a surprised look. "So you've spent the last eight years developing this?"

  "Yes, in a sense. After the first few failures my resolve weakened. Things gradually returned to normal. The company went through a reorganization and somehow weathered the storm. We found other avenues and slowly began to rebuild. During this time I kept working on my plan, when I could, constantly refining and testing, but I was missing something in the DNA matrix. Then, a year ago my wife filed for divorce."

  Geoffrey looked to Camilla, who had her sunglasses back on now.

  "Then the attacks began. GenLabs announced a revolutionary gene manipulation process which came under fire. The whole nightmare started up again, just as it had eight years prior. It was then I knew I had no other choice. I devoted every spare waking minute to the project. Six months ago, thanks to some groundbreaking research from UCLA, I found the final piece of the puzzle. That's when I created my copy."

  "And this copy - this clone - he thought and acted just like you?"

  "Well, no, Mr. May. He didn't think and act like me; he was me."

  "Objection!"

  "Grounds?" said the judge, dipping his head to look at the District Attorney from under a stern brow.

  Alton McBride open his mouth, closed it, frowned. His hands flapped in the air.

  "Overruled," said Lemar. "Please continue, Mr. Bartell."

  Geoffrey Bartell thanked the judge and turned back to the microphone.

  "Things went well for the first few months. Between the two of us we were able to weather the current storm and repair the mess I'd made of my family life. It was a perfect solution. Or so it seemed. I began to notice problems with my copy. I'd rushed things again it seems, and my memories - in the copy that is - began to degrade. I noticed an anomaly, a misstep if you will, in the continued convergence of our stream of experience."

  "Can you be more clear on this point, Mr. Bartell?"

  "Sorry, yes. Essentially it would be on the order of a split personality. What once was identical began to diverge, due to this anomaly, and thus our shared consciousness went out of step."

  "And how did this misstep, as you say, manifest itself?"

  "The copy became moody, morose at
times, and less and less able to function as one part of the whole."

  "When did you first identify this anomaly?"

  "Christmas Eve."

  "And did you not correct it at that time?"

  Geoffrey frowned. "No. It had just begun to surface then. But the degradation escalated over the next six weeks. We began to argue frequently, my copy became increasingly bellicose. By February I realized what needed to be done."

  "And what was that?"

  "I needed to put the copy back into the cerebrum scanner."

  May raised his eyebrows. "To what end, sir?"

  Geoffrey Bartell looked briefly toward the jury before turning to face May directly.

  "To reset the memory, of course."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JEFF PULLED INTO THE parking space and killed the engine. He glanced to the rearview mirror and saw Lilian and Patch fidgeting for the seat belt releases, their arms like fat brightly colored sausages in their parka sleeves. The engine ticked as the cold February air descended on it. Across the street a snaking line of cars moved one by one, metronome-like, into the painted drop-off zone, their doors opening and children spilling forth, then resuming the same measured pace until they slipped out of sight around the end of the block. Jeff watched a river of bobbing hats and coats and backpacks streaming through the red brick gate posts, across a wide lawn - normally green but now a dull grey-brown - and into a squat building constructed of the same red brick. His eyes flicked back to the rearview.

  "Get out on the sidewalk side, okay?"

  "Duh, Dad," said Lilian with a smile. She reached over her brother and swung open the door, then scooted across the seat, nudging Patch out of the car in front of her.

  Jeff reached for his door handle just as his phone rang. He looked at the screen, which said simply 'G', then mashed the side-button and dropped it into the cup holder. He came around the car to the sidewalk, took his kids by the hand, and walked them across the street. When they passed the gates he directed them off to the side, out of the flow of bodies. He knelt down and adjusted Patch's jacket, then enfolded him in a long hug. Drawing back he looked into his son's eyes, bright and innocent and unencumbered, and then kissed him on the forehead.

  "I love you, Patch," he said, his voice hoarse.

  "Love you too, Dad."

  "Lilian," Jeff said, turning to his daughter, "take care of him, okay?"

  Lilian shifted her weight to one leg and tilted her hip, a distinct reflection of her mother. She rolled her eyes. "Of course, Dad."

  Jeff took her by the shoulders. "I know you do, and you're an amazing big sister, but just humor me okay? Life is weird. Things happen. Sometimes unexpected. But no matter what you'll always have each other, and-"

  "Dad, you're freaking me out."

  "Sorry, sweetie." He touched her head, the woolen hat soft and spongy over her thick hair, so much like Camilla's. "You're so smart and beautiful, and caring, and I love you so much." He kissed her tenderly on the cheek then mustered the best smile he could. "Just don't ever change, okay?"

  She looked at him, her eyes softening, then hugged him fiercely. Her words were soft and warm at his ear. "I love you too, Daddy."

  His phone was ringing when he got back in the car. He looked at the clock on the dash. Eight fifteen. He lifted the phone, his thumb hovering over the slider on the screen, and watched it until the ringing stopped, a small green box lighting up reading 'Missed call from G'. Then he dropped the phone back into the cup holder and started the engine.

  The temperature was slowly rising as a bleak sun fought its way through swaths of grey clouds. Jeff pulled his collar up against the frigid gusts coming off the river. He looked south and could just make out the French restaurant on the other side. Up against the riverside railing the wrought iron tables were stacked and the chairs tilted in around the perimeter. He imagined a long plastic-coated cable encircling the whole, weaving in and out of table legs and chair backs and finished with a sturdy weatherproof padlock.

  His mind wandered to the first time they'd dined there - their first anniversary. He'd parked three blocks away and walked Camilla along the esplanade to disguise the intended destination. He recalled his chest being full of pride, so sure was he of her recognition of his cultural sensibilities; that he, a farm boy and son of a humble country veterinarian, was conversant with the fineries of life. She did not disappoint. She'd swooned and cooed and affirmed his majesty. She'd mmm'ed and aah'ed over the food, and proclaimed it the best this side of the Atlantic. And six months later, after a night of lovemaking and her tongue loosened by Merlot, she'd finally relented and told him the truth: she hated French food, save for one item - a delicate fruit tart called Tarte Tatin. They'd laughed until tears flowed freely, then made love again, and had returned to the riverside bistro every year since for their anniversary dinner - always finishing with the Tarte.

  Jeff's phone vibrated harshly, thrusting him out of the warmth of his memories and into the bitter, biting present. He reached for it robotically, looked at the screen, thumbed the side-button and put it back in his pocket.

  "Mr. Bartell?" said Jackson with a concerned expression as he held open the security door. "I didn't see you leave."

  Jeff smiled warmly at the old guard. "I nipped out the front for a late lunch."

  Jackson nodded, a frown line lingering on his brow. His eyes flicked to the Maserati parked across from the door, silent and cold in the bleached sodium light.

  Jeff placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Needed to stretch the old legs," he said, "so I walked the long way around and came in the garage."

  Jackson smiled, a wide toothy grin. "I know how that be, sir," he said. "These old bones need more than a stretch most days."

  Jeff looked into the old man's eyes which were mottled and dry, what used to be the whites now the color of tobacco. He tried to remember what they'd looked like the day he'd hired the man, but the details escaped him. With a thin smile he patted Jackson on the shoulder and headed past the elevators, to a security door set in the far wall.

  He tapped in a combination and stepped through, ensuring the door closed firmly behind him, then walked the breadth of the building down a softly lit corridor until coming at length to his private elevator. He tapped in a combination, and waited. Twenty seconds if the elevator was stopped at his office level, twenty three if at the private lab above. He counted off the seconds in his head. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. The way his dad used to when timing contractions while birthing a new foal.

  The elevator arrived at the twenty count. Hoping that Geoffrey was alone in the office, he took a steadying breath and stepped into the brushed steel cubicle.

  "Out!" Geoffrey barked.

  Misty's face registered shock, then confusion. Her glossed magenta lips were open, frozen mid-sentence, and her finger held rigidly in the air above her tablet.

  "Excuse me?" she said.

  Geoffrey watched the elevator display in his peripheral vision. He'd just caught the flash of green as it indicated a return from the garage level. Twenty seconds.

  "Out!" he repeated.

  Misty glared at him, her arms held stiffly at her side. "How dare y-"

  "Out!" he said again, exploding from his chair. He pointed forcefully at the door. "Now!"

  Geoffrey ushered her out and locked the door. He returned to his desk and sat, swiveling the chair to face the elevator directly.

  He breathed and told himself to be calm, but when Jeff stepped into the room the anger welled up in him like a molten flow. He watched Jeff with a look that he hoped conveyed the depth of his contempt.

  "You ungrateful bastard."

  The man said nothing. Just walked towards him, eyes downcast, and gingerly took a seat in front of the desk. After a few beats he looked up at Geoffrey and said quietly, "I'm not going back in the scanner."

  "The hell you're not!"

  "I've been doing a lot of thinking," Jeff said. He spoke softly, carefully, as if he'd rehea
rsed it, his eyes focused on the edge of the desk in front of him.

  "Really?" Geoffrey snorted. "That's what you've been doing all bloody day? Thinking? Ignoring my calls. Tromping on our agreements. Thinking, huh? That's what you're calling it?"

  "I can't lose these memories." Jeff looked up at him with pain in his eyes. "I won't!"

  "Jeff, look at you," Geoffrey said, feeling his resolve weakening. The man was fractured, almost tortured. "You're a mess. You need my help."

  "Help? Hah! By wiping me clean?"

  "Jeff, no. That's not what's happening here. I'm not going to take any-"

  "You are!" Jeff shrieked, his head snapping around, eyes flashing.

  The man was coming unglued and Geoffrey briefly pondered his own safety. Here alone, locked in together. What if things got out of hand? Could Jeff go that far? Would he?

  They sat in silence, held in one another's gaze, for what seemed to Geoffrey an eternity. Unspoken words passed between them. At length the fire in Jeff's eyes began to fade, and he said, "Did you ever really care about them?"

  "About who?"

  "Camilla. Lilian. Patch."

  "Of course I did. I do. How can you even ask me that?"

  "Why didn't you take the time then?"

  Geoffrey clenched his jaw. "You know the answer to that!"

  "Do I? I know the answer eight years ago. But not now. How could you just discard them?"

  "I was on a treadmill. You know this! The company-"

  "The company would have survived!" Jeff stood as his anger flared anew. "You couldn't spare an evening here or a day there? To be with the ones you lov-" He stopped and turned to the door, as if staring through it to the office beyond, the plush imported rugs over hand-hewn hardwood, the rich wormwood reception desk acting as a barricade to the ivory tower of the big man at the top. He turned back to Geoffrey, his eyes accusing.

  "It's her isn't it?"

  "Who?" said Geoffrey, reserved, composed.

  "Her!" Jeff pointed at the door. "How long have you been banging her?"

  "Jeff, don't be-"