Replica

by Lexi Revellian

  Replica

  Revellian, Lexi

  (2011)

  * * *

  REPLICA

  by

  Lexi Revellian

  Published by

  HOXTON PRESS

  2 Hoxton Street, London N1 2PG

  Copyright

  ©

  Lexi Revellian

  2011

  All rights reserved

  While the places in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters and events are fictitious.

  CONTENTS

  1 Probably not a good idea …

  2 Beth Two

  3 Minor hiccups

  4 Home

  5 Safe house

  6 Flight

  7 Helping the Homeless

  8 Calling for help

  9 Back home

  10 Chloe

  11 Nick

  12 Other plans

  13 Changes

  14 Home once more

  15 On not getting lucky

  16 Criminal activities

  17 Chance encounter

  18 A place of my own

  19 Thames House

  20 Strays

  21 Warm on a cold night

  22 Freddie

  23 Better than you think …

  24 Things are looking up …

  25 Looking for results

  26 Good feeling …

  27 The goods

  28 Bad night, worse day

  29 Damage

  30 Chase

  31 Blame

  32 Matt

  33 Change of plan

  34 Journey to an unknown destination

  35 Reprimand

  37 Alarms and excursions

  38 Allies

  39 Recriminations

  40 Plans

  41 Surveillance

  42 Negotiations

  43 Realpolitik

  44 Enough

  45 Convergence

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 1

  Probably not a good idea …

  “It’s not like you to be difficult, Bethie. She hasn’t got anyone but me to ask.”

  Beth bit her lip, staring unseeing at the computer screen on her desk. Was she being difficult? “What about her boyfriend?”

  “He’s away.”

  “Can’t she do it herself? With a glass and postcard, she wouldn’t have to touch it.” Beth remembered the self-help book she was currently reading, Just Say No: every woman’s guide to assertive behaviour. Rob could not read her mind; she needed to tell him what she wanted. “I was really looking forward to this evening.”

  “Spiders freak her out.” Down the line, Rob’s voice took on a fond, indulgent tone. “A high-flying investment banker, and one tiny insect reduces her to a scared little girl.”

  Beth started to say, “I don’t think spiders are insects …” but Rob spoke through her.

  “We can go tomorrow, it’ll still be on. You’re free Saturday, aren’t you?”

  “Yes …”

  “So no problem. By the time I get back it’ll be too much of a rush, better to go tomorrow. We can have a pizza first.”

  “I suppose …”

  “That’s settled, then. I’ll pick you up at the flat tomorrow at seven thirty. Love you.”

  “Love you.” Beth put the phone back on its receiver and reached into her desk drawer for her emergency Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut. She tried to stifle a sense of failure – so much for asserting herself – peeled back the paper and foil and bit off a corner. It didn’t really matter. It was natural Rob should want to help Chloe; they’d lived together for two years, and it was nice they were still friends, even though she’d chucked him and made him miserable for a while. It showed what a kind man he was, willing to drive across London whenever her laptop played up, or her taps needed new washers, or she couldn’t put together some flat-packed furniture. Only the month before she’d bought a chandelier for her bedroom, with no idea how to put it up. Rob went straight over, and was gone all day. On his return, he’d taken Beth out to dinner, and spent a big chunk of the evening telling her what a tricky job it had been, and how he’d been about to admit defeat when he finally hit on the idea of accessing the joist from the attic.

  He wasn’t cheating on her, she was sure, and she wasn’t exactly jealous, that would be silly; but it did seem to her that Chloe was taking advantage of him a bit.

  She sighed and glanced at the clock. Twenty past six. The building was so quiet she could hear the hum of the air-conditioning; nobody hung about on a Friday, except the Professor, who viewed his home life as a tiresome interruption to his work. And of course, the security guards that came with a government research institute were still on duty. Everyone else had gone long ago. She was only there herself because she hadn’t wanted to arrive at the cinema before Rob. Beth slipped her shoes on, and rummaged below the desk for her handbag and the plastic bag holding the new top, skinny jeans and killer heels she’d planned to change into, wondering whether to treat herself to fish and chips on the way home. She glanced at the blackness outside the sash window and shivered. The forecast snow had yet to arrive, but beyond the building’s warmth, where her little car waited in the car park, the night was bitterly cold.

  The door bursting open made her look up. Professor McKinnis stood there, eagerness overriding his usual air of abstraction; suddenly Beth could see what he must have looked like at her age. Beth liked her boss, demanding though he was. It amused her that he resembled the eccentric scientists portrayed in movies, with his rumpled hair, absent-mindedness, and habit of writing in black pen on the left sleeve of his lab coat. The laundry service never quite succeeded in getting the ink out, and behind the current jottings could be seen the grey ghosts of former weeks’ notes.

  He saw her and smiled. “Bethany, you’re still here. Thank goodness for that. I can always rely on you.” His glance fell on the bags she was holding and he frowned. “Not rushing off anywhere, are you?”

  “No, I was but then …”

  “Good girl. Come into the lab, I need you.”

  Beth thrust the remains of the chocolate in the carrier bag and put it back, slung her handbag over her shoulder, got up obediently and followed the Professor. She had to break into a trot now and then to keep up with his rapid stride. Cream paint, decorative mouldings and twelve-foot ceilings gave way to the bright aseptic corridors of the new wing. He turned to speak to her as they went. “I’ve finished the programming on the OMD7. Been working on it all week, and finally everything’s fallen into place. Thought it’d take the weekend, but then I saw how to do it. A simple matter of tweaking the spacer algorithm and adjusting the particle interchange ratio. A much more elegant solution.” He went into detail; it was part of his charm to speak as if everyone shared his specialized knowledge, though his field was unique and understood only by him.

  He held the lab door open for her with distracted courtesy, and she walked into the brilliantly-lit laboratory. A pair of boxer dogs, crammed into the same dog basket, lifted their heads in unison, got up and came to sniff at her, wagging their stumpy tails.

  “Thompson! And Thomson …” She put down her handbag so she could pat them both at once. “I still think you should have called them Fred and George. Less confusing.”

  “I prefer Tintin to Harry Potter. It hardly matters, no one can tell them apart anyway.”

  The dogs were the result of earlier research. The Prof had adopted them, though the guidelines governing this secret unit clearly stated all lab animals should be put down after the experiment was over. Beth liked the fact that the Prof had a softer side. Law-abiding to a fault herself, she also admired and envied his magisterial disregard for the rules.

  He hurried over to his new obsession. In the eig
hteen months Beth had worked at the Institute, she’d seen several version of these Organic Matter Duplicators, each larger and better-made than the last as success bred greater funding. The early prototypes, when the Professor had been working with invertebrates or mice, were converted pairs of fish tanks with a profusion of wires, transformers and cables soldered and clipped on. This latest was a gleaming man-sized tube, resembling a snug-fitting shower unit lying on its side, its workings contained in a steel box with multiple switches, dials and two computer screens.

  “Where’s the twin unit?” Beth asked.

  “In B lab. With people it’s going to be important not to confuse the results by letting the subject see the duplicate.”

  Professor McKinnis pressed a button and the transparent curving door slid silently open. He turned briskly.

  “Have you got any dental fillings?”

  “No, why?”

  “They won’t copy. I take it you haven’t got any metal pins, rods or plates in your bones from fractures? Replacement joints, pacemaker … no. You don’t wear contact lenses, do you? Best to take off your watch and jewellery. This won’t take a minute.”

  Beth looked from the cabinet to her boss. She hoped he didn’t mean what she thought he did. “Uh … you’re not asking me to try it out?”

  He nodded impatiently. “You’re the only person here. It’s perfectly safe.”

  “But … it would be quite irregular. I’m not cleared for this, I’m just a research secretary. I don’t think the insurance covers me, for one thing.”

  “A technicality. Nothing can happen to you. It’s like having your photo taken, just this is a cellular three-dimensional copy, life-size.” He gave one of his infectious chuckles. “It won’t steal your soul. It won’t affect you in any way at all. All the action happens in the receptor cylinder. We’ve done this with everything from fruit flies to macaque monkeys, tested them rigorously for years afterwards – well, not the fruit flies, obviously – and they’ve all been completely unaffected by the experience. You know this, you’ve typed the results. Some we’ve copied dozens of times.”

  “What about the Fubars? Can’t you fetch one of them?” Beth would never have used this name for the six disabled Marines seconded to the Institute as guinea pigs, had it not been how they invariably referred to themselves. When she’d asked the Prof, in her first days working there, what Fubar meant, he had coughed and bowdlerized the army slang for her benefit; effed up beyond all recognition. They had their own living quarters in the grounds within the compound, and didn’t work nine to five. Nominally on call, they spent their days in the gym, the computer room, the local pub or chatting to Beth when she wasn’t busy.

  “Regimental dinner. Away till tomorrow.”

  “Oh yes – I’d forgotten …”

  “It’s annoying, the day I’m ready is the one day they’re not here, and Ray’s got flu. I’d do it myself, except I need to work the thing and monitor the results.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do …”

  “My dear girl, you don’t have to do anything. Just lie in the send unit for thirty seconds. The macaques had no problems with that. Or the mice.”

  “I’m sure Sir Peter wouldn’t approve.” Sir Peter Ellis was head of the Marling Institute, and everything had to be run past his piercing blue eyes.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. He’s been ringing my direct line every day this week for progress reports. With the casualty figures rising, and public opinion turning against the war, the P.M. needs this up and running quickly. I’ve left a message with Sir Peter’s wife to tell him what I’m doing. I’m one hundred per cent certain he’d give his approval. You’ve signed the Official Secrets Act. He knows you’re a responsible person.”

  Beth made a stand. “Even so, if I agree then you’ll still need me to operate the duplicate, and I’d have to stay here for hours. I’m really sorry, but I’m tired. I want to get home and have some supper.”

  “Bethany, one hour, that’s all I ask. And you can take Monday off, if you like.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ll be out of here before eight.”

  Beth recalled the advice in the book. Don’t discuss it, don’t explain, just say no, pleasantly but firmly. “I’m not going to do it, Professor.” She picked up her handbag.

  He saw she meant what she said, and the spark seemed to go out of him; he sighed deeply. With a visible effort, he squared his shoulders, smiled and patted her arm. “Quite understood, Beth, I hope I haven’t pressured you unduly. You toddle off home. It’ll keep till tomorrow afternoon when the Fubars come back.”

  His hand went to the on/off switch and hovered reluctantly over it. As he stooped, she saw with a pang the lines in his middle-aged face, obvious now the animation had left it, worse after a week of late nights working in the lab.

  She felt mean.

  “I guess an hour wouldn’t really make any difference.”

  She took out her ear studs, removed her watch and lay down inside the machine.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 2

  Beth Two

  I’d shut my eyes as the Prof flicked the switch, and now I opened them. It was dark, the only glimmer of light coming from the LEDs on the control panel. My heart fluttered; I was no longer in the Prof’s lab. As my vision adjusted, I could see the accumulated clutter stacked on the benches and in corners, and recognized the surroundings beyond the receptor unit: Lab B, which no one uses except as a convenient dumping-ground for oddments not currently needed.

  I looked towards my feet. Everything about me was the same. Except this wasn’t me; just a physical copy inhabited by my mind. Funny, because I felt no different. Even my clothes were identical. I tried to think myself back into my own body, and couldn’t. Weird, and a bit frightening. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this: I suppose I’d imagined that it would be, as he’d said, like having my photograph taken, then I’d have had to think my way into the copy so I could try to control it. A bit like learning to drive, or recovering the use of a broken bone with physiotherapy. Gradual. But actually I felt as if I’d been beamed into Lab B, rather than replicated. Like waking up in another room after a general anaesthetic. Had the Prof invented a matter transporter by mistake? The thought made me smile and I felt better. I tried to sit up, and hit my head on the lid; I tried to open the door, but there was no catch on the inside. That made me feel worse again. I couldn’t hear anything at all. It was claustrophobic. But the Prof would be along in no time …

  Minutes passed. The reason for removing my watch was that metal and plastics, because of their low levels of internal molecular structure, didn’t replicate properly and could be messy – my skirt felt loose where the zip had failed to copy, and only the button held it up. Then I felt the button give; of course, it was plastic. I remembered my phone was in my cardigan pocket, and banged my elbow getting it out. The familiar case dented slightly as I held it, as if it was made of Play-Doh. Strangely repellent; I recoiled and it slipped through my fingers down the gap at the side of the padded surface I lay on, and there wasn’t enough room to retrieve it. Panic began to nibble at the corners of my mind. I suddenly wished I hadn’t agreed to be the first guinea pig. That was just stupid of me, especially when he’d been all right about my saying no. By now I could be in my car driving home, instead of locked in a booth in a dark room, a prey to doubts and fears.

  The door opened, showing the Professor silhouetted in the light from the corridor. Foolish relief flooded through me. After a moment, he switched the lights on, then paused again before approaching the unit. He peered at me, and for an odd few seconds we gazed immobile into each other’s eyes. I smiled uncertainly. He clicked a switch and the door glided open. I sat up, swung my legs on to the floor and stood, holding my waistband to stop my skirt falling round my ankles. The Prof was looking at me strangely, not saying anything.

  “I was getting anxious,” I said. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”

 
“What’s your name?”

  Now I was giving him a funny look. “You know my name!” Silence. “Beth Chandler.”

  “And where are we?”

  “Lab B, the Marling Institute. How do I stop being here and get back to the real me?” He still didn’t say anything. “It has worked, hasn’t it? Tell me what you want me to do now. I really don’t want to stay longer than an hour.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” He rubbed his face, as if trying to get the wrinkles out. “It’s worked … fine. Just stay here two minutes, don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

  In his absence I rooted around till I found a paper clip in an otherwise empty desk drawer, which I unbent to fasten my skirt. I didn’t worry that I had to make holes in the fabric, as after all, it wasn’t my real skirt. I pulled my cardigan back down, and holes appeared; when rubbed between finger and thumb, it fell apart. Polyester, not wool, it had copied no better than the phone. While I was thinking about this, the Professor returned.

  “Come with me and I’ll just get you to do a few tests.”

  I followed him into the corridor and along to the office next to his lab. He sat me down at the computer, switched on the desk lamp and brought up a questionnaire. An intelligence test. It said at the top it took forty minutes. I supposed that was okay, as long as he didn’t want me to do much else.

  “Now you get on with that, and I’ll pop back shortly and see how you’re doing.” He headed for the door.

  “Professor!” He turned. “It is all right, isn’t it? I will be able to get back into my own body, won’t I? Because I just feel normal, and that sort of doesn’t feel right …”

  “Don’t worry, everything’s under control.”

  He shut the door behind him. I read the instructions, and began the test.

  Question 1: Rearrange the following letters to make a single word and then choose the category in which it belongs.