I’m dying!
From impossibly far away, he heard Dr. Pike say something about a heart rate and felt the slight pressure of a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t see anything of the hospital room anymore. He was drowning in the blackness. His chest felt suddenly constricted. He fought just to find his breath.
“This is all perfectly normal, Mr. Adams. You have nothing to worry about. Concentrate on the sound of my voice. Nod if you can hear me.”
With considerable effort, Jeremiah managed what he hoped was a nod of his head. He was suddenly gripped by the alarming certainty that if he couldn’t communicate somehow, he’d be lost—swept away forever.
“Good. Good. Listen to my voice. It will keep you grounded.” Pike still sounded far away, but Jeremiah nodded again and struggled to focus. “What you are experiencing is to be expected. Do you remember when you took the Meld with Dr. Young? Do you remember the way you could feel her thoughts for the first few minutes?”
He nodded. It had been an unnerving thing to perceive her consciousness mixing with his like that. Flashes from her mind—odd, alien things like the feel of a blister on the back of her right heel, the familiar gleam in the eye of an old man he’d never seen—had swirled into the very structure of his own mind and fought for a place to settle. He had railed against that, too, and she had grounded him by flashing a penlight in his face, making him focus on that while the Meld took effect. Afterward, once he had sunk in, it had been easier.
“This is no different than what you experienced then,” Pike said. “This time, though, you are connected to an empty mind. There’s nothing there. But the more you resist, the longer this will take. You need to relax, Mr. Adams. Give in to it.”
Jeremiah nodded again and then shook his head with as much grit as he could muster. How does one give in to this? He didn’t think he could do it.
“Once your thoughts begin transferring into the mind of the clone it will be easier for you,” Pike urged. “Focus on a memory, as I suggested. Something vivid. It will help to fill that void you’re experiencing now. It will give you something to hang on to.”
Without the benefit of his full faculties, Jeremiah had little choice but to grab the last thing he’d been thinking about—his initial conversation with Charles Scott, the day all of this began.
He’d been surprised when he’d received an invitation to lunch from ViMed’s head of Engineering. The man was an icon in the science world, and although he’d quoted him a hundred times for the company, Jeremiah had never actually met him. He’d been intrigued enough to accept the invitation, especially when Scott had told him it involved a “proposition that could make him a very wealthy man.”
Flashes of that encounter and snatches of conversation now flitted through his mind like so many fireflies. He fought to catch them.
“We’ve been watching you, Mr. Adams.”
“All we ask is one year of your life. Isn’t that worth $10 million?”
“We can do this. The science exists. And with Meld, the clone will even share your thought patterns... Your own mother won’t know the difference.”
“This is sanctioned by powerful people—we have millions in secret federal backing. There are billions more in eventual funding... There’s no need to be so suspicious, Mr. Adams.”
From somewhere far away, Jeremiah heard Dr. Pike repeating his name. He had been so engulfed in his efforts to hold on to the memory that he’d almost forgotten where he was. As soon as he realized it, the void loomed again in his mind.
“Mr. Adams,” Pike said, “you’ve got to listen to me. The clone cannot pick up on any memory of the experiment. What you’re thinking about is not going to help. You need to think about something else, some memory that won’t be filtered. His mind is still empty.”
Jeremiah panicked. He couldn’t think. And now that he wasn’t focused on anything, the blackness began to take over again, creeping closer and threatening to swallow him. He fought for breath.
“Relax, Mr. Adams,” Pike said. “Think about your job here at ViMed. Remember something the clone can actually use. Something he’ll need to know.”
He felt a dull jab at his shoulder.
“This should help. I’ve given you a mild sedative. Take a few deep breaths. Concentrate on your breathing.”
With everything in him, Jeremiah tried to turn his mind away from the void that seemed to be all around him. He inhaled deeply and tried to focus on the rise of his own chest. Exhaled, and he felt his chest fall.
“Very good, Mr. Adams. Very good. Pulse is returning to normal. Deep breaths. Now, think about a typical day at work. Something ordinary and mundane.”
Inhale. Exhale. After a moment, Jeremiah began to relax and, as the sedative took hold, he found he could let his mind wander without the frantic thought that he’d never get it back. An oddly comforting fog seemed to expand in front of him, pushing the blackness away slightly, and Jeremiah retreated into it.
He began to think about the morning of the Meld fiasco—the day the New Jersey housewife had killed herself. The press had been circling. He’d arrived at his office with a terse mandate from his superiors to “get these fuckers off our back” and no idea how to accomplish that. It hadn’t been lost on him that not a single soul seemed bothered enough to stop and feel sorry about it, and he’d taken a quick moment behind his office door to offer silent condolences. It wasn’t thirty seconds before someone had come knocking, pushing him to get something done.
Weeks before, he’d heard talk of Meld being used to detect brain activity in a sixteen-year-old football player who had been comatose for nearly six months. Time to cash in. He tracked down the doctor somewhere in Delaware and the man started gushing about Meld, calling it “magical,” “a godsend” and “the most important medical advance of a generation.”
“After so many weeks,” he said, “the parents were hopeless.”
Meld was a last resort before pulling the plug, and it gave them the first clear signs of neural activity in the boy.
“Not only was he aware and awake in there, but he was cognizant of everything that was going on around him—including the fact that his parents were losing hope. He even heard them talking about funeral arrangements at one point. The kid was scared, terrified. He was begging for his life in there. That’s what I saw when I took the Meld with him. Meld absolutely saved his life. There is no doubt in my mind.”
Jeremiah had almost smiled. It was pure gold. A few hours later, the story was in the hands of every major news outlet, and that doctor was spending his fifteen minutes of fame touting Meld as “a medical miracle.”
Jeremiah focused on that now. Maybe Meld did have some silver lining, after all, he thought. Maybe it was miraculous.
Chapter 2
Jeremiah had no idea how long he’d been under the Meld when Dr. Pike’s voice began to penetrate his mind again.
“Mr. Adams. We’ve finished the transfer. We’re done here. Wake up.”
Jeremiah shook his head in an attempt to disperse the fog in his mind and felt Pike’s hand on his shoulder easing him to a more upright position in the chair. He must have fallen completely asleep under the sedative, he realized, and that possibility touched on a vague sense of worry in the back of his mind.
“It’s time to go, Mr. Adams,” Scott said. “The clone will be waking up soon and we can’t have him wake up to your face. I will take you to your new home now.”
“I just need a minute.” Jeremiah closed his eyes again and fought a sudden wave of nausea.
Charles Scott took a slight step back, afraid, no doubt, that his four-hundred-dollar shoes were at risk.
After a moment, Jeremiah stood up slowly and followed Scott down an intricate puzzle of intersecting hallways and through doors that were opened by a wave of a key card in Scott’s hand. When they finally arrived at the living quarters, Jeremiah couldn�
��t have retraced their steps if he tried for the entire year. At the moment, he didn’t care. His head ached and all he wanted was a place to lie down.
They entered through a nondescript door into a generous room, furnished with two light-colored leather couches, low tables and a desk in the corner outfitted with a sleek, all-glass computer terminal. Discreet overhead lighting cast everything in a pleasing glow. But despite the size and opulence, the room felt closed in. Two walls were lined with shelves of books and a third was almost entirely filled with a six-by-eight-foot screen, which, at the moment, was turned off and blank.
“That’s quite the TV,” Jeremiah said with some surprise.
“That monitor is where you will watch your clone each day, Mr. Adams. Four hours, every day, for the next 365 days. It is controlled remotely, but when not in use for its intended purpose, you can certainly watch television as you desire.”
“Bugs Bunny will look terrifying on that thing.”
“This monitor will also serve as a window to the outside, Mr. Adams,” Scott said, ignoring Jeremiah’s attempt at levity. “It can provide you with a real-time view of just about any place on Earth equipped with a camera feed.” By way of demonstration, Scott picked up the remote and revolved through vistas of an African wildlife sanctuary, an outdoor market in Amsterdam and a convenience store that could have been somewhere in Detroit.
“You’re going to be secluded within these walls for a rather long time,” he said. “We thought this technology would at least give you the illusion of more expansive surroundings.” Scott nodded toward a treadmill in the corner with a helmet-like device hanging from its handlebar. “That’s the latest in virtual reality tech,” he said. “Put that on and you’ll swear you’re walking the streets of Paris, jogging in Central Park or whatever else you’re inclined to do.”
“An exercise wheel. You equip all your lab rats like this?”
“You are not a lab rat, Mr. Adams. But surely you can appreciate the importance of maintaining your current physical condition. We can’t have you returning home suddenly twenty pounds heavier than your clone. That might raise some eyebrows. It is imperative that you and your double remain exactly that—doubles.”
“How did you get it to grow so fast? I mean, this thing is my age. You only took the cells a week ago.”
“With a bit of tweaking,” Scott said, “it appears the neuroendocrine hypothesis was essentially sound.”
Jeremiah shook his head.
“We extracted secretions from your own pituitary gland,” Scott explained. “That compound contains human growth hormone, which we then genetically hyperstimulate, at a systemic level, during cell division. The process allows us to increase the maturation rate and create a fully grown replica in about forty-eight hours.”
“You went from a couple of cells to a forty-seven-year-old human in forty-eight hours?”
“Science, Mr. Adams, is a wonderful thing. But to ensure our efforts remain intact, you will be put on a strict regimen of exercise. Dr. Pike will monitor everything with periodic visits.”
“It looks like you’ve thought of everything.”
“We want you to be comfortable here. This is your home, not a cage.”
Jeremiah noted the total lack of windows and the fact that the front door didn’t even have a doorknob.
“I’d say that depends on your vantage point,” he said.
“Seclusion is paramount to this project, Mr. Adams. We simply cannot risk any contact with the outside world.”
“Well, at least there’s the internet, I suppose. I assume the Wi-Fi is state-of-the-art down here.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Scott said. “You’ll have full access to the web. But I’m afraid there is no outgoing signal. No email or text. And no camera. You understand. You will not be able to communicate with anyone other than our immediate team.”
“Then what’s with that thing?” Jeremiah nodded toward an old-fashioned landline telephone on the desk in the corner.
“That line will connect you with an administrative assistant on the project,” Scott told him. “You can use it to make any requests for specific foods, personal necessities and so forth. Or in the case of an emergency, of course. But we don’t foresee anything like that. You will be well looked after during your time here.”
To Jeremiah’s ears, Scott’s words sounded more like warning than solace.
“Looked after? Do you mean you’ll be watching me, Dr. Scott? Will I be monitored in here?”
“Monitored, yes, but we won’t be spying on you,” Scott said. His expression reflected bewildered affront. “Besides, we have no need for anything like that. Brent Higgins will be here with you for a good part of every day, and he reports to me. You’ll also have regular psychological sessions with Dr. Young throughout the process. We’ll be keeping track of your exercise, food intake, sleep patterns, that sort of thing—but we have no need to do anything quite so covert. We’re scientists, not secret agents. You don’t need to be suspicious.”
It wasn’t suspicion so much as it was amazement that he had been selected at all. He still had no idea why they’d chosen him for this role. There must have been better candidates than him. Someone younger, stronger, better connected. Scott’s only explanation was that he’d been “vetted” by those involved and had proven he could be trusted and was loyal to ViMed interests.
“We tested you repeatedly to see how you’d react,” he’d said, “and every single time you protected the company. Even when people started dying. You toed the line, Mr. Adams. You soldiered on.”
The explanation, like much of what Scott had to say, had sounded to Jeremiah like a veiled threat. And it didn’t answer his questions. Of course he’d protected the company. That was his job. That’s why ViMed paid him. From the very beginning, he’d had the feeling that all of this had been decided without him, a long time ago. But he was content with the fact that they’d selected him, no matter their reasons. It was an opportunity beyond anything he’d ever expected.
He walked farther into the room and took a closer look. The decor leaned toward the masculine, with bronze and glass accent pieces dotting the shelves and walls the color of sand. On the side wall, closest to the kitchen, there hung an oversize framed painting—an abstract array of varied circles done in grays and blues. The effect was dizzying and, silently, Jeremiah decided he didn’t like it. He was startled to see, on one of the coffee tables, the exact book he’d been straining to finish for the past two months at home. He picked it up and thumbed through it, relieved to find no page corner had been turned back exactly where he’d left off.
“We’ve supplied you with a range of reading materials,” Scott said. “You’ll have a lot of free time on your hands, I’m afraid. Any specific requests can be handled, of course. Our sources suggested you prefer the physical books over the reader tablet, but we could get that, too, if you like.”
“No, it’s fine,” Jeremiah said, wondering who these “sources” were and how they knew anything at all about his reading habits. He let it go for the moment and walked into the kitchen. Scott followed. The room was a small but opulent galley, gleaming with glossy appliances and stainless-steel countertops.
“Now this,” Scott said, encompassing the room with outstretched arms, “is very impressive. The latest smart home tech—much of it generated specifically for the project. There isn’t a kitchen like it anywhere in the world. You’ll barely need to lift a finger.”
Scott described appliances that were smarter than the average teenager. A refrigerator that would keep track of—and actually place orders for—groceries, and an oven that could set precise temperature and cooking time based solely on the weight and type of food you put into it. Someone must have known, he thought, that he wasn’t much of a chef.
“And these devices actually get smarter the more you use them, Mr. Adams. They will learn your part
icular tastes and adjust accordingly—right down to the precise temperature you prefer your coffee.”
“Well, it looks like I won’t starve to death, anyway.”
“You may explore the rest of your accommodations at your leisure.” Scott glanced at his watch. “I believe the clone will be waking up soon and I’ve arranged for us to witness that. It’s quite a significant moment. Historic, I dare say.”
Jeremiah followed him back into the living room, where the video screen had just switched on of its own accord, and sat with him on one of the leather couches.
On the wall, Jeremiah watched as his double opened its eyes and attempted to ease itself up in its hospital bed. Dr. Pike was still there and was immediately at the clone’s side with a hand on its shoulder.
“Mr. Adams, I am Dr. Evans,” Pike said. “You’re in the hospital. There was a car accident, but you are not seriously injured.”
“A car accident?” Jeremiah had the impression of listening to a recording of his own voice—recognizable, but slightly unfamiliar in tone. It spoke almost in a whisper, as though waking from a long sleep, but it was undeniably Jeremiah’s own voice.
“Can you tell me what you remember?” Pike prodded.
“A car accident? Was anyone else hurt?” the clone asked, sudden alarm evident in his tone.
“No, there were no other injuries. What can you tell me? What do you recall?” It was obvious to Jeremiah that Pike was trying to ascertain the success of the Meld procedure.
“I don’t know,” the clone started. Pike helped it into a sitting position, propping a pillow behind its back.
“Try to remember, Mr. Adams. It will help us to determine if there is any head injury.”
“Head injury?” The clone put a tentative hand to its forehead. “All I remember is that I was at a stop sign. The one at the end of the exit ramp. I was hit on the passenger side. I think the air bag deployed. Did I hit the air bag?”
“I believe that’s what rendered you unconscious, yes. But we’ve already run scans. There is no interior bleeding and no outward signs of neurological damage. We’ll run a few more tests and keep you here for observation for a few hours just to be sure. But to test your short-term memory, could you state your full name and address for me?”
The Mirror Man Page 2
