by Elle E. Ire
Several nurses seated at a horseshoe-shaped desk look up and wave, though their smiles seem forced and their auras show trepidation at our approach. We’re told that treatments are down to the right and patient rooms to the left. One nurse indicates the left archway with a shaky hand. Once we’re in the new hall, Robert glances along the corridor. Empty. This section is decorated just as comfortably as everywhere else, but there are subtle differences: more cameras, patient suite doors farther apart with smaller windows in them. Some have slots instead of viewing panes, for passing food through? Are the people receiving treatment in here that much of a threat?
“Come on,” Robert says, setting off. Eventually, we pass a few additional armed orderlies, but it appears they’re relying more on technological than human security here.
“Aren’t we worrying about the other patients and staff?” I murmur. If VC2 gets in here….
“We’re secure. You’ve got experts and soldiers from both the Storm and the OWLs onsite and working with Klenar’s security people. It’s under control. We’re only talking about one woman, highly skilled or not. Our folks will intercept her before she can reach the facility. We just wanted to isolate her, and this area is sparsely populated and hard to reach. And just in case, we’ve been quietly transferring the most mobile patients elsewhere. It’s fine,” Robert assures us.
I’m not assured, and from Vick’s expression, she isn’t either.
When we come to the end of the corridor, Robert stops in front of a door with Vick’s name taped to the side of it. There’s also a datapad in a wall holder, probably containing her medical information. Out of curiosity, I lift it from the holder and swipe my fingers across the screen. It lights up, offering me access. I shoot Robert a confused look. “How much of her real data is on here and how much is for show?”
“It’s all on there,” Robert says. “Fingerprint locked, but you’re on the official access list, so it opened for you.”
“And you?” Vick asks. “How much do you know about me?”
Robert uses another touchpad to open Vick’s suite of rooms. We follow him into a large living space with comfortable couches and a wall of windows with a view of the mountains. Doors to the left and right must lead to bedrooms. There’s a small half bath just inside the entrance. The door shuts, sealing all three of us inside.
“This is a secure area. We sweep it daily for bugs. We can talk here. And as for your question,” Robert says, making for the closest couch and dropping onto it with a heavy sigh, “if you mean do I know you’re a clone with an AI in your head, then yes, I do. And so does the highest echelon of the One World government.”
Chapter 37: Vick—Laying the Trap
I am stunned.
“YOU KNOW?” My knees buckle and I fall more than sit on the other sofa in my new, better-be-temporary, quarters.
“We do,” Robert affirms. “Well, I didn’t until One World brought me into the loop for this mission, but the government knew. Don’t panic. You’re safe enough.” He frowns. “At least you were until your doppelganger showed up and started killing civilians.”
“Full-body human cloning is illegal. I’m not complaining, but why is Vick an exception?” Kelly asks, taking my hand once more and sitting next to me. I lean into her for support.
Robert shrugs. “Lots of reasons. Her missions, for one thing, have done a lot of good for both Earth and her colony worlds. Her future mother-in-law is a high-powered diplomat. And then there’s the loophole.”
“Enlighten me.” It comes out snarky. I’m edgy and tired and don’t want to play games.
“Technically, the law states that cloning cannot be used to duplicate an existing human being. You can make cloned replacement parts, limbs and such. You can clone animals. And if you go by the exact letter of the law, you can clone a human, so long as the original is deceased. At least that’s how the Storm played it to One World when the OWLs started looking at you harder. You’re a hero, rapidly becoming a legend in your own time. We’ve got a file on you over a hundred pages long. We investigated your crash on Elektra4 and determined from the damage to the transport, in particular the pilot’s chair, that there’s no way you could have survived.” Robert leans forward, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You didn’t, did you?”
A shiver passes through me. I close my eyes, seeing the lightning streak down, piercing the shuttle’s hull like it was nothing, piercing me. My pulse rate picks up. My breath comes too fast.
“Get her some water, please,” Kelly orders.
To his credit, Robert jumps up to comply, stepping to a wet bar off to the side and fetching me a glass of ice water. The frozen cubes tinkle against the glass while I let VC1 get me under control. I note while I take my first sip that there is no alcohol on the bar shelves, just juices and sodas. Makes sense in a mental health facility.
“No, I didn’t survive,” I say, my breathing returning to normal, my voice soft.
“So a clone replaced you. Kudos to your medical personnel. Your people aren’t the only ones researching the process. They’re just the only ones who’ve had success. A success One World is looking to purchase, I might add, in exchange for helping with your current problem.”
I hide a grin behind my glass. They can purchase the process. Without blueprints to the implants as well and a willingness on the patient’s part to have a majority of the brain removed, it won’t work. Which I’m certain the Storm knows and One World doesn’t. Good deal.
“So,” I say, the shakes evaporating at last, “who all is in on this and who thinks I’m a dangerous homicidal maniac?”
“Your Storm team working here and your additional OWL security know you’re not a murderer,” comes Carl’s voice as he steps out of one of the bedrooms. Of course he’s sticking around. “Klenar’s regular staff thinks you’re traumatized, which is true, and terrifying, which, to some extent, is also true. They think you killed the victims on Girard Base, but they want to help you regain your sanity. We need to perpetuate that belief. No one is allowed to speak about the reality of this mission outside this suite. We can’t put anything into any sort of computer or communications system about it, either. All contact must be verbal or handwritten.”
“Or VC2 will be able to access it,” I say.
He nods. “I’m afraid most folks on the Girard Base also think you’ve lost your shit, though Lyle and Alex are in the loop.”
Kelly shifts to glare at him. “And how long is that going to be allowed? Vick’s reputation is destroyed, and no one seems to care about that.”
“Oh, believe me, we care. Until this gets resolved, we can’t contract her out for any missions, can’t use her in any way.”
Of course his concerns aren’t for me, personally.
“Once VC2 shows up here, and all indicators suggest she’s on her way since the murders on Girard have stopped, we can eliminate her. Then, with the OWLs’ help, we’ll fabricate some kind of cover story, alter the other clone’s body to make it look like someone who’s had plastic surgery to look like Vick, someone with a grudge against her. We’ll clear Vick’s name and that will be that.”
“Simple,” I say, setting my drink aside, sarcasm dripping from the word like condensation on the glass.
Carl shrugs it off. “In the meantime, you get the therapy you need. Get settled in. You start your sessions tomorrow.”
THERAPY, AS it turns out, isn’t as bad as I feared. I need it. I know I need it. I can’t walk past a reflective surface without flinching, can’t brush my teeth or put my hair up properly without seeing that metal skull staring back at me from the mirror. Sometimes it’s so bad, I’m shaking for minutes afterward. I’m no good to anyone like this.
I’m certainly not good enough to fight VC2, but I keep that to myself and hope like hell she takes her time in coming after me.
“Are we even sure it’s me VC2 is after?” I say to Kelly and Carl. We’ve been discussing what might be taking her so long to make her move. I’m on my way to my
third counseling session, the treatment side of the maximum-security wing empty except for our party. It’s always empty when I’m out of my suite. I’m beginning to suspect that’s by design.
It is, VC1 confirms. A safety precaution. You are, after all, considered to be a lethal threat.
I shake my head, earning some confused looks from my escort guards dressed as orderlies. But hey, I’m crazy, right? They can think what they want. Fuck ’em.
Just so long as you can get me in and out of here if I need to move fast. Claustrophobia has a lot of triggers. Close quarters are only one of them. Being locked in, even with the spaciousness of the suite and all the amenities of the Klenar Facility, is another one.
I can. Do not worry.
Robert is always on duty when I’m moving about, and he answers my earlier question. “We think she’s after both of you. You to kill, because you’re competition for her,” he says to me, “and you to keep,” he says to Kelly.
Kelly opens her mouth to speak, but Carl beats her to it. “We think the reason she’s murdering women who look like Kelly is because none of them can do for her what Kelly does for you.”
And it hits me. “VC2 is what I would have become if you hadn’t found Kelly to help me purge my built-up emotions, if you’d let me continue to live rather than terminating the implant project.” The project being me, of course.
Carl rests a hand on my shoulder. For once, I don’t shrug him off. “We think so, yes.”
Holy fuck.
We arrive at my therapist’s office, but Dr. Nuzzi steps out almost immediately, waving for us to follow her farther down the long row of offices with doctors’ names on them. “We’re going to the large conference space today,” she says, white teeth glowing in a bright smile.
I like her. She’s older, an expert in dysmorphia, no nonsense, sees right through my bullshit, and pushes me to my limits. I’ve told her everything I can about what I’m experiencing. She didn’t let up until she’d dragged every detail from me. I can feel she wants me to get through this as fast as possible, so we share the same goal.
Even better, Carl has brought her into the loop, so she knows I’m not a threat to her and doesn’t treat me like the other staff members sometimes do—polite, caring, and as if I’m going to strangle them at any moment.
We’re almost to the door at the end of the hallway labeled Conference Room Level Two when one of the other offices opens up and two women step out, one wearing the white coat and trousers of another therapist, the other—
“Valeria?” the young woman shrieks, then throws her arms around my neck, hugging me for all she’s worth. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re okay. You changed your hair! It is you, isn’t it?”
I’m not big on physical contact, especially by surprise and from people I don’t know well, but if this attractive blond is calling me Valeria, then I must have interacted with her on the slaver mission. I take both her forearms in a gentle grip, pushing her away from me to put some space between us and study her. A moment later it clicks.
“Cynthia Hothart, right?”
She nods, blond curls bobbing with the motion, and offers up a big smile. No wonder I didn’t recognize her right off. Last time I saw her she was drugged, depressed, pale, and thinner. Now she has color in her cheeks, a spark of life in her eyes. I’m guessing she’s been at Klenar since we rescued her, so several weeks longer than me. They’ve worked wonders with her, that’s for sure. It also clicks that she’s here, in the maximum-security wing. She’s certainly no threat to anyone around her, which means she is or has been a threat to herself. My heart sinks. I know what that feels like, know it far too often, and I hope she makes a full recovery.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, using the question as an excuse to take a small step backward. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I’m feeling closed in.
“Oh, my mother works for—”
“One World. Right. Of course.” Her mother is Secretary of the Treasury. Of course Cynthia would be admitted to the government’s exclusive mental health treatment center.
“I’m so glad to get a chance to thank you for leading the team that saved so many of us. I asked my mother to find out who you were. You work for the Fighting Storm, right?”
I glance over her shoulder at Carl, raising my eyebrows. He gives me a go-ahead nod.
“Yeah. And it’s Vick, not Valeria. That was a cover.”
“I knew it!” She gives a little bounce on her toes, reminding me of how a much younger Kelly might have been. The smile is infectious. I can’t help returning it. But it fades when she adds, “You were hurt, weren’t you? I wanted to send flowers or a card, but I didn’t know where.”
“I’m okay.”
Her frown intensifies. “Not if you’re here, you’re not. But you’ll get better. I’m getting better. They’re wonderful here.” Behind her, her doctor smiles.
She seems a little manic, like maybe she’s on some serious mix of antidepressants, but her improvement does give me hope. Not too improved, though, if they haven’t transferred her yet. This must be a good moment for her. I’m not seeing the bad.
“Yes, well, on that note, we do have a session,” Dr. Nuzzi says, not unkindly. She places a hand on my shoulder while Cynthia’s doctor leads her away by the elbow—a protective gesture—from me.
Sigh.
“Stay in touch, Vick!” Cynthia calls back as they head in the opposite direction from the conference space. “Let me know how you’re doing.”
I offer a halfhearted wave and a forced smile before they turn the corner, entering a walkway that circles the two-story nurses’ station central hub. We continue toward our destination. At the farthest door, Dr. Nuzzi stops.
“We’re on the upper level, so we’ll need to go downstairs eventually, but I wanted you to be prepared for your challenge over the next few days or weeks, depending on how long it takes to overcome your aversion. I have every confidence that you will overcome it. From your records, you are a strong individual with a remarkably resilient psyche.” She winks. “And stubborn as hell. So,” she says, throwing open the door and leading the way onto a small balcony overlooking this side of the room, “here is your challenge.”
I step to the railing and lean over it to look down into the large space that is probably used for lectures and group sessions, or maybe recreational activities like dances or banquets. About the size of a high school gymnasium, it would hold hundreds of chairs or tables or displays, though it contains none of those things now.
In fact, it only contains one thing, and there are a lot of them.
Mirrors.
From one side of the conference space to the other, it’s a sea of mirrors. They aren’t angled upward, won’t reflect my appearance from here, so I lean over a little farther to analyze the setup.
It’s a maze. A maze of mirrors from one set of double doors on the left all the way to a matching set of doors on the right. And without facing into those mirrors, looking right at them, working my way through them, I will never, ever get across that room.
“Oh fuck no,” I breathe. “So much fuck no.”
Chapter 38: Kelly—Goals
Vick is challenged.
“SO MUCH fuck yes!” Dr. Nuzzi blurts out, throwing her hands up like a kid on a roller coaster.
Vick and I turn to stare at the petite, white-haired, grandmotherly therapist.
She takes one look at our faces and bursts into laughter, so hard she doubles over with the effort. I can’t help but join in, though tentatively, watching Vick with a cautious eye. Relief floods me when Vick’s lip twitches, just slightly, upward before she cracks a small grin.
“Sorry,” Dr. Nuzzi says, straightening and wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her lab coat. “Couldn’t resist. You soldier types always amuse me with the colorful turns of phrase. And believe me, I’ve heard it all. But.” She points a finger at Vick’s chest. “Yes. This is your challenge, to get across that room without needing someone to pull
you out. No hyperventilation, no nausea, no averting of the eyes, no hesitation whatsoever. If you want me to return you to active status, that’s what you’ll have to accomplish.”
Vick says nothing as we follow the doctor out the door, into a stairwell, and down a flight of stairs to an identical door on the first floor of the facility. This one has had some recent electronics installed next to it, as evidenced by areas of chipped paint around a shiny new scanner pad.
“You’re going to lock me in?” No one misses the trepidation in Vick’s voice. She runs a hand through her hair.
I resist the urge to comfort her with a hug. She wouldn’t appreciate the gesture here in front of her therapist and Robert, who is watching the proceedings with great interest.
“You’ll be under observation at all times,” Dr. Nuzzi says, not answering the question. “We’ve installed cameras and sensory equipment. The conference hall’s green room”—she points to a clearly marked Staff Only door off to the side—“has been reconfigured to be a monitoring center. Your company spared no expense.”
“Yay for them,” Vick mutters.
Dr. Nuzzi laughs. “I’ll let you in. Get to the other side of the room and the doors will open for you. Simple, right?” She palms the door open. No one misses that Vick keeps herself facing away from the entry while she finishes gathering information and preparing herself.
“What if I have a meltdown?” she asks.
“You mean, ‘What happens when you have a meltdown?’”
Vick’s eyes widen in surprise. “You expect me to fail?”
“Absolutely,” Dr. Nuzzi says with a definitive nod.
Vick glances at me, raising her eyebrows. “What the actual fuck?”
Robert snorts an almost laugh, then gets himself under control.
“Look,” Nuzzi says, resting a hand on Vick’s arm, “you’re going to struggle with this. It’s inevitable. But I have confidence that given time and support, you’ll overcome it. And the sooner we get started, the sooner that day will come.” She claps Vick once on the shoulder, spins on her heel, and leads the way to the monitoring room, motioning for me and Robert to follow. We precede her through the Staff Only door. “Step inside whenever you’re ready,” Nuzzi calls back, then follows us in and lets the door slide shut, leaving Vick alone with her current worst nightmare—her self-image.
