The Gemini Experiment

by Brian Pinkerton

  As Tom watched the Giamattis, he noticed something that struck him as odd.

  Giamatti was walking cleanly – without his pronounced limp. He inserted himself into the back of the limo with ease, without assistance.

  As he climbed in, Bella Giamatti momentarily placed her hand on the top of the open car door. She was missing her monster diamond ring – the one she declared she would never remove from her finger. Especially for such a high-profile social spectacle – why would she take it off?

  The two of them seemed different. Had they moved forward with moving into their new bodies? Had they followed the president into the operating room for a triple switch? It made some sense, as long as the lab was set up and the staff was present to conduct all of the work in one lengthy session.

  Tom watched the limousines leave for Navy Pier, winding down the long arc of the driveway, through the open gates and into the street. He decided to contact Cooper for the latest update. He didn’t want to stay stuck in the guest room all day, but strolling the mansion would probably require clearance, given the high security of the president’s visit.

  Tom picked up his cell phone from the nightstand. He sat on the bed and called Cooper.

  It rang a half-dozen times, then dumped into voicemail.

  Tom left a message: “Hey, Coop, it’s Tom. I saw the group leave. Okay if I walk the house and get something to eat? Also, I want to ask about the Giamattis. They seem different, if you know what I mean. Are they? – you know. Anyway.… Thanks.”

  Tom disconnected.

  He waited five minutes, then ten, then fifteen minutes for a call back.

  Nothing.

  Tom grew irritated at the prospect of being ignored. Then he grew worried, given the prior day’s events and the bullets fired their way. Enemies still existed.

  Tom was ready to break himself free of the guest room when a knock sounded at the door.

  “Cooper,” Tom said to himself. At last.

  He stood up from the bed, found a good stride and walked over to the door. He pulled it open with a quick tug.

  Tom Nolan faced Tom Nolan.

  The sight was surreal. It made him swoon with a rush of disorientation. Then the reality of the circumstances settled in.

  “Hello,” said the other Tom Nolan. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I am your better half.”

  Tom’s heart pounded like a hammer. He locked eyes with his own set of blue eyes. “How – how did you get in here?”

  “It was easy.” The fake Tom Nolan matched the sound of his voice precisely. “I came to the door and Mrs. Giamatti let me in. I’m the Trojan horse that brought in the rest of my army.” He stepped forward and Tom backed up. “You surprised us. We didn’t expect you to escape the police. But you stayed away long enough for us to come in and take over.”

  Tom thought back to when he and Cooper entered the house. It must have been the imposters who let them in. That’s why Giamatti didn’t respond to Cooper’s text messages.

  Tom’s mirror image stood two inches away, toe to toe, face to face, like a 3-D reflection.

  “Who’s inside there?” Tom said to the unnatural presence that occupied his body.

  The replica smiled with pride. “I am Alex Nikolaev. I’m part of the team that created you. Now I’m part of the team that will destroy you. There’s no room for both of us. You’re being replaced. Just like the Giamattis. Just like the president.”

  Tom backed up several more steps. His mirror image stayed close, advancing to block his escape, dominating Tom’s view.

  “The rest of your team as you knew them is dead,” said Tom’s replica. “I’m cleaning house, and you’re my last bit of business. You may scream, but there’s no one left to save you. It’s just the two of us, a couple of Tom Nolans, and that’s one too many. I’m sorry, but this is how it ends. I have nothing against you personally. The situation requires it. We can’t wait for your illness to do the job. Your time has come. Mr. Nolan, I have two final words for you.”

  Tom watched himself shut the bedroom door with a slam, sealing the only exit.

  He heard his own voice announce his fate:

  “Lights out.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Tom turned to run, although he didn’t run very well and there was nowhere to run to. He hobbled past the bed and his replica laughed at the awkwardness of his movements. The only place that offered a moment of safety also cornered him helplessly – the adjoining bathroom.

  Tom’s other choice was a dive out the window, but the fall would probably break bones – if he could even shatter the glass on a first try.

  Tom slipped into the bathroom, shut the door and locked it.

  His forgery on the other side said, “Is that where you want to die? Over a toilet?”

  The words, in his own voice, made his head spin, as if he were speaking them out of his own mouth.

  Tom thought about Emily and Sofi. He didn’t want to die. Not here, not now.

  The replica began hammering at the door with considerably more strength than an average human being. The blows sounded like gunshots. The wood began to splinter.

  “You’re making me mad,” the replica said, quickly growing impatient as he pounded with increasing fierceness. Each blow became louder, booming with violence. Finally the door burst open, breaking free from the frame with a surrendering crunch.

  Tom’s replica lunged into the bathroom. He thrust a fist into the center of Tom’s face with so much force that the face shattered, swallowing the hand up to the wrist.

  “Shit!” shouted the replica. He realized that in his amped-up speed he had punched his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  Tom leapt out of the shower and covered his replica with the flowered shower curtain he pulled from its rings. The attack was meek but bought Tom several seconds, which he promptly spent on his escape.

  As the replica quickly worked to free his hand and shake off the curtain, Tom moved as fast as he could out of the guest room and into the hallway.

  The replica pulled himself loose with a loud thrashing and stomped out of the bathroom.

  Tom ran as quickly as possible, praying for his legs to cooperate. He reached the top of the stairway leading down to the ground floor. He gripped the banister to begin his descent – and then one of his legs buckled. Tom fell, crashing down the stairs, his vision spinning in a topsy-turvy blur until he reached the floor with a thud and a groan.

  The replica stood at the top of the stairs and barked, “Give it up! You won’t leave this house.”

  Tom, bruised and stiff, pulled himself along the floor and away from the steps, trying to crawl to his knees. As he slid forward, he knocked into something big on the floor that blocked him. He let out a shout.

  Cooper’s dead body lay crumpled on the floor, throat crushed and purple. His eyes and mouth remained open but useless. A few feet away from Cooper’s limp arm, Tom spotted Cooper’s gun.

  Tom quickly scooted on his hands and knees to get to the gun. The replica immediately bounded down the steps, three at a time, with perfect balance and precision, landing with force between Tom and the firearm.

  The replica kicked the gun away, sending it far across the room. Then the replica kicked Tom, hard.

  Tom curled up and rolled from the blow. Desperately, he forced himself back up on his feet, legs positioned awkwardly, fighting not to fall down again.

  “Pathetic!” shouted the replica. Tom’s own voice never sounded so nasty.

  Tom ran.

  The replica followed, not running, not needing to. His footsteps slammed in a steady, confident stride as he trailed his prey.

  Tom entered the Giamatti kitchen.

  He looked in every direction, searching for something to defend himself with. He spotted a wooden block of sharp cooking knives. He fell against the counter and
grabbed the biggest handle in the block.

  As soon as Tom got a good grip on the knife and turned toward his attacker, he felt the sting of a hard swat against his hand. With a fast, sweeping motion, the replica knocked the knife free and it flew across the room, leaving Tom defenseless once more.

  The replica reached out and slapped Tom in the face – hard. He did it several more times, accompanied by a childlike taunt: “Why are you hitting yourself? Why are you hitting yourself?”

  Finally, the replica stopped with a twisted smile. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

  Tom just glared at his attacker, face reddened from the slaps.

  “This is a lot of fun,” the replica said, “but I’m a busy man. It really must come to an end.”

  Leaning against the counter, face stinging and hand throbbing, Tom demanded, “Why are you doing this?”

  The replica considered the question for a moment, making a face of puzzlement, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “It’s my duty,” he said, “to my country. You serve your country, I serve mine. It’s really that simple.”

  Tom’s eyes roamed the kitchen counter. The knife block was now out of his reach. There was nothing else nearby except a dirty coffee cup, a plate of crumbs, a spoon and a fork.…

  “There’s no innocence on either side,” continued Tom’s replica. “We’re not that different, just two countries of people with the same hopes and dreams and relentless drive to achieve them at any cost. I could be you, you could be me…as we are.”

  “No,” Tom said forcefully. “I’m not you!” He plunged the fork into his replica’s eye.

  Stunned, the replica straightened up and froze for a moment. The fork handle stuck out of his left eye socket, the four sharp prongs sunk inside his head.

  “That was not nice,” he said.

  Tom stood still, knowing that if he made a run for it, he would be pounced upon immediately. He may not have secured his escape, but he felt better by fighting back.

  During the brief stare down, Tom’s own eye hurt just looking at the damage he had inflicted on his other self.

  “You do know,” said the replica, “that I can get a new eye. This is just a minor inconvenience. The miracle of computer technology is how easily you can replicate your creations, unlike, say, human biology. For instance, when I break your spine – in a few seconds – it will not be so fixable. When I crush your skull and end your life – it isn’t growing back. I can be repaired. You’ll only…disintegrate. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Your mortality is inevitable.”

  Tom began to sidestep away from his replica. The replica didn’t move.

  “You think you can run faster than me? Give it a try. I’ll give you a head start.”

  Tom continued to move slowly across the kitchen. He reached a small, round table where the Giamattis must have shared thousands of meals over the years. The table’s centerpiece was a vase of colorful flowers.

  Tom didn’t care about the flowers. He was more interested in the other item plopped on the table, an elegant, purple handbag belonging to Bella Giamatti. It was left behind by her replica, who probably didn’t care about its contents – or know of their existence.

  The replica watched Tom with curious interest, expecting him to make a sudden, desperate mad dash at any minute.

  Tom picked up the handbag and dumped its belongings on the table. Several small makeup items scattered. A roll of lipstick fell on the floor. But Tom quickly found what he was looking for.

  “What are you doing?” the replica asked. “Do you need to powder your nose?”

  Tom held up Bella Giamatti’s Taser gun.

  “What the hell is that?” said the replica, now scowling. He stepped forward. Tom stepped forward as well, and when his intention was recognized, it was too late.

  Tom turned on the Taser. He thrust its electrical current at the fork handle sticking out of the replica’s head.

  The impact was immediate.

  A blue crackle of electricity vibrated the fork, traveling its full length to enter the replica’s skull. Sparks sprayed in fits and the replica let out a howl, shaking violently as the surge created havoc inside his head. The voltage shocked and fried the circuitry, lighting up and breaking down the command center that linked digital thought with mechanical operations.

  Even faced with the horrible sound of his own screams, Tom did not remove the Taser from his replica’s eye. Smoke emerged first from the socket and then from his nostrils and mouth.

  In a fit of computer meltdown, the replica sputtered fragments of speech and jolted its limbs awkwardly, like a crazed new-wave dancer, losing all control of humanlike fluidity and replacing it with crude robotic flailing.

  Tom pulled away the Taser and watched himself smoke from an internal fire, wavering on two shaky legs, face partially blackened, mouth moving involuntarily as if to offer final words.

  There were none.

  Tom’s replica stiffened and pitched forward, crashing to the floor on its face.

  For a short moment, Tom felt sad peering down at his own dead body. He had killed himself and survived, and now stood over his physical form like a lingering soul. He felt a variety of emotions, none of them right. Then the moment passed.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  After a long time spent staring down at the defunct robot, keeping a firm grip on the Taser, making sure his alter ego didn’t suddenly reboot for a fresh assault, Tom felt it was safe to leave the Giamatti kitchen. He stepped slowly and cautiously out of the room and followed the hallway to the bottom of the broad staircase leading upstairs. He returned to Cooper’s dead body. He walked past it.

  He wanted Cooper’s gun.

  Tom reached down and picked it up. As he held it in his hand, he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure rushing across the floor in the next room, crouched and headed toward the front entryway.

  Tom whirled and pointed the gun at the fast-moving individual. “Hey! Stop! I’ll shoot!”

  The figure immediately halted and threw up his hands, exclaiming, “Please don’t shoot!” in a frightened voice.

  Tom walked over to him, keeping the gun steady the best he could.

  As Tom approached, his eyes grew large and he lowered the weapon.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “Steven.”

  Scientist Steven Morris, badly bloodied and drenched in panic, stood before him. Steven looked at Tom and recognized his old friend, but it didn’t reassure him. “Don’t kill me,” he said, shaking.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” said Tom. “It’s me, Tom Nolan.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “No, really.”

  Steven didn’t look convinced and remained frozen with his hands straight up and fear in his eyes.

  “I attended your wedding,” said Tom. He searched for a trivial tidbit that would prove his identity. “The bouquet – Madeleine threw the bouquet and Emily caught it, remember? She wasn’t even trying – it just landed in her hands. Your first dance, it was…it was.…” Tom searched his memory. “‘Wonderful World’ by Louis Armstrong.”

  Steven looked at him, still uncertain. His face was striped with blood. One lens of his round glasses was stained. His shirt was also bloody, especially one very red arm.

  “That was the second dance,” he said.

  “Damn,” Tom said, then he remembered: “‘Moonlight Serenade’!”

  Steven nodded. He finally let out an exhale of relief. “Thank God it’s you and not the other you. I didn’t know there was anyone still alive in this house.”

  “What happened? You look horrible. You’re bleeding all over.”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. Some of this is my blood. A lot of it isn’t.”

  Tom stepped closer. Steven looked exhausted, ready to collapse. “I saw everything,” Steven said.


  Steven told Tom he had spent the last twelve hours hiding in Giamatti’s wine cellar. “We were setting up the lab for the president’s procedure. The Russians came in with your double. They didn’t say anything – they just started shooting. The other doctors and scientists were all killed. I was hit. I went down with the others, we fell on top of one another. I was hit in the arm. I faked I was dead, I didn’t move. They shoved us in the wine cellar. They took over. When they finally left…I went into the lab. The shells were gone. And I found more bodies. Mr. Giamatti. His wife. And the president. They killed President Hartel.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “They’re stealing the identities.”

  “The president left here earlier this morning,” said Tom. “His staff has no idea that it’s an imposter.”

  “The Russians want to take over the White House,” Steven said, shocked at his own words.

  “We’re the only people alive who can expose them.”

  In the moment of stunned silence that followed, a cheerful music jingle chirped from another room.

  “The Beach Boys?” said Steven.

  Tom listened. It sounded like the opening notes of ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice?’ Then it repeated. And again.

  Tom followed the source of the music and it led back into the kitchen. He stared down at his robot duplicate.

  “Tom Nolan 2.0,” said Steven, standing close by. “He doesn’t look so good.”

  The Beach Boys song restarted once more, a persistent loop.

  “It’s his ring tone,” Tom said. He kneeled down and reached inside his alter ego’s pants pocket. He grimaced, imagining a terrible scene where the robot awoke and clutched his wrist.

  Instead, the robot remained rigid, lifeless, fried.

  Tom answered the cell phone in his natural voice, which was what the caller was expecting to hear.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Alex, is your business finished?” said a voice. Tom could hear a lot of commotion, voices, in the background.

  “Yes. Tom Nolan is…no more.” He was getting used to referencing himself in the third person. “And Cooper. Both of them…are done. Completely done.”