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 particular 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?”
“Jeremiah Adams. Twenty-two Dorsey Road in Riverdale.” The answer was correct and fully automatic. “I should call my office,” the clone said, “and my wife.”
Scott switched the monitor off but continued to stare at the blank screen with something approaching amazement. The expression seemed unnatural on his face. When he turned back to Jeremiah, he was fully composed again, his features aligned in their usual studied neutrality.
“Seems to have worked,” he said. “The clone has remembered the accident exactly as it was recorded, and there is no sign of amnesia.”
“Remarkable.” Jeremiah shook his head. “It’s absolutely incredible.”
“And a promising start to our adventure. I’ll leave you to rest, Mr. Adams. I imagine you must be tired from the morning’s activities. The bedroom is just through there.” Scott nodded toward a closed door on the far side of the room. “And remember, if there is anything you need, use the phone.”
Scott left, swiping the key card against a panel to open the door. It closed behind him with a quiet but significant click.
Chapter 3
Jeremiah stood in the middle of his new living room. There was almost complete silence, except for a steady hum coming from somewhere above his head. It must have been some sort of air circulation, he decided. He began to explore his surroundings.
He was happy to note a few of his favorite authors on the bookshelves and delighted to see a complete set of Shakespeare, small books bound in ancient-looking cracked red leather. In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and found it stocked with all the necessities, but in a wide enough array to cover any taste: three kinds of milk, five different juices and an assortment of fruits and vegetables, many of which he didn’t even like. There were two six-packs of beer from a microbrewery he’d never heard of. At least, he thought with some relief, Scott had stopped short of hiring someone to snoop through his home refrigerator and duplicate its contents here.
In the bedroom, he sat tentatively on the edge of the king-size bed and noted the total lack of any feminine touches in the decor. There was no vanity table or makeup mirror, no tall lingerie chest like the one Diana had at home. The attached bathroom was bigger by far than the one they shared and had both a shower and a claw-foot tub, as well as a doored-off toilet. High shelves in a walk-in closet held a full wardrobe in his exact size. He absently fingered the assortment of khaki pants and jeans, T-shirts in every color and a hanging rod that held about twenty-five casual buttoned shirts. There wasn’t a suit or tie to be seen. He wouldn’t need business attire for a solid year, he realized.