The Copy (8 page)

"And how did this misstep, as you say, manifest itself?"

"The copy became moody, morose at times, and less and less able to function as one part of the whole."

"When did you first identify this anomaly?"

"Christmas Eve."

"And did you not correct it at that time?"

Geoffrey frowned. "No. It had just begun to surface then. But the degradation escalated over the next six weeks. We began to argue frequently, my copy became increasingly bellicose. By February I realized what needed to be done."

"And what was that?"

"I needed to put the copy back into the cerebrum scanner."

May raised his eyebrows. "To what end, sir?"

Geoffrey Bartell looked briefly toward the jury before turning to face May directly.

"To reset the memory, of course."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JEFF PULLED INTO THE parking space and killed the engine. He glanced to the rearview mirror and saw Lilian and Patch fidgeting for the seat belt releases, their arms like fat brightly colored sausages in their parka sleeves. The engine ticked as the cold February air descended on it. Across the street a snaking line of cars moved one by one, metronome-like, into the painted drop-off zone, their doors opening and children spilling forth, then resuming the same measured pace until they slipped out of sight around the end of the block. Jeff watched a river of bobbing hats and coats and backpacks streaming through the red brick gate posts, across a wide lawn - normally green but now a dull grey-brown - and into a squat building constructed of the same red brick. His eyes flicked back to the rearview.

"Get out on the sidewalk side, okay?"

"Duh, Dad," said Lilian with a smile. She reached over her brother and swung open the door, then scooted across the seat, nudging Patch out of the car in front of her.

Jeff reached for his door handle just as his phone rang. He looked at the screen, which said simply 'G', then mashed the side-button and dropped it into the cup holder. He came around the car to the sidewalk, took his kids by the hand, and walked them across the street. When they passed the gates he directed them off to the side, out of the flow of bodies. He knelt down and adjusted Patch's jacket, then enfolded him in a long hug. Drawing back he looked into his son's eyes, bright and innocent and unencumbered, and then kissed him on the forehead.

"I love you, Patch," he said, his voice hoarse.

"Love you too, Dad."

"Lilian," Jeff said, turning to his daughter, "take care of him, okay?"

Lilian shifted her weight to one leg and tilted her hip, a distinct reflection of her mother. She rolled her eyes. "Of course, Dad."

Jeff took her by the shoulders. "I know you do, and you're an amazing big sister, but just humor me okay? Life is weird. Things happen. Sometimes unexpected. But no matter what you'll always have each other, and-"

"Dad, you're freaking me out."

"Sorry, sweetie." He touched her head, the woolen hat soft and spongy over her thick hair, so much like Camilla's. "You're so smart and beautiful, and caring, and I love you so much." He kissed her tenderly on the cheek then mustered the best smile he could. "Just don't ever change, okay?"

She looked at him, her eyes softening, then hugged him fiercely. Her words were soft and warm at his ear. "I love you too, Daddy."

His phone was ringing when he got back in the car. He looked at the clock on the dash. Eight fifteen. He lifted the phone, his thumb hovering over the slider on the screen, and watched it until the ringing stopped, a small green box lighting up reading 'Missed call from G'. Then he dropped the phone back into the cup holder and started the engine.

The temperature was slowly rising as a bleak sun fought its way through swaths of grey clouds. Jeff pulled his collar up against the frigid gusts coming off the river. He looked south and could just make out the French restaurant on the other side. Up against the riverside railing the wrought iron tables were stacked and the chairs tilted in around the perimeter. He imagined a long plastic-coated cable encircling the whole, weaving in and out of table legs and chair backs and finished with a sturdy weatherproof padlock.

His mind wandered to the first time they'd dined there - their first anniversary. He'd parked three blocks away and walked Camilla along the esplanade to disguise the intended destination. He recalled his chest being full of pride, so sure was he of her recognition of his cultural sensibilities; that he, a farm boy and son of a humble country veterinarian, was conversant with the fineries of life. She did not disappoint. She'd swooned and cooed and affirmed his majesty. She'd mmm'ed and aah'ed over the food, and proclaimed it the best this side of the Atlantic. And six months later, after a night of lovemaking and her tongue loosened by Merlot, she'd finally relented and told him the truth: she hated French food, save for one item - a delicate fruit tart called Tarte Tatin. They'd laughed until tears flowed freely, then made love again, and had returned to the riverside bistro every year since for their anniversary dinner - always finishing with the Tarte.

Jeff's phone vibrated harshly, thrusting him out of the warmth of his memories and into the bitter, biting present. He reached for it robotically, looked at the screen, thumbed the side-button and put it back in his pocket.

"Mr. Bartell?" said Jackson with a concerned expression as he held open the security door. "I didn't see you leave."

Jeff smiled warmly at the old guard. "I nipped out the front for a late lunch."

Jackson nodded, a frown line lingering on his brow. His eyes flicked to the Maserati parked across from the door, silent and cold in the bleached sodium light.

Jeff placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Needed to stretch the old legs," he said, "so I walked the long way around and came in the garage."

Jackson smiled, a wide toothy grin. "I know how that be, sir," he said. "These old bones need more than a stretch most days."

Jeff looked into the old man's eyes which were mottled and dry, what used to be the whites now the color of tobacco. He tried to remember what they'd looked like the day he'd hired the man, but the details escaped him. With a thin smile he patted Jackson on the shoulder and headed past the elevators, to a security door set in the far wall.

He tapped in a combination and stepped through, ensuring the door closed firmly behind him, then walked the breadth of the building down a softly lit corridor until coming at length to his private elevator. He tapped in a combination, and waited. Twenty seconds if the elevator was stopped at his office level, twenty three if at the private lab above. He counted off the seconds in his head. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. The way his dad used to when timing contractions while birthing a new foal.

The elevator arrived at the twenty count. Hoping that Geoffrey was alone in the office, he took a steadying breath and stepped into the brushed steel cubicle.

"Out!" Geoffrey barked.

Misty's face registered shock, then confusion. Her glossed magenta lips were open, frozen mid-sentence, and her finger held rigidly in the air above her tablet.

"Excuse me?" she said.

Geoffrey watched the elevator display in his peripheral vision. He'd just caught the flash of green as it indicated a return from the garage level. Twenty seconds.

"Out!" he repeated.

Misty glared at him, her arms held stiffly at her side. "How dare y-"

"Out!" he said again, exploding from his chair. He pointed forcefully at the door. "Now!"

Geoffrey ushered her out and locked the door. He returned to his desk and sat, swiveling the chair to face the elevator directly.

He breathed and told himself to be calm, but when Jeff stepped into the room the anger welled up in him like a molten flow. He watched Jeff with a look that he hoped conveyed the depth of his contempt.

"You ungrateful bastard."

The man said nothing. Just walked towards him, eyes downcast, and gingerly took a seat in front of the desk. After a few beats he looked up at Geoffrey and said quietly, "I'm not going back in the scanner."

"The hell you're not!"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Jeff said. He spoke softly, carefully, as if he'd rehearsed it, his eyes focused on the edge of the desk in front of him.

"Really?" Geoffrey snorted. "That's what you've been doing all bloody day? Thinking? Ignoring my calls. Tromping on our agreements. Thinking, huh? That's what you're calling it?"

"I can't lose these memories." Jeff looked up at him with pain in his eyes. "I won't!"

"Jeff, look at you," Geoffrey said, feeling his resolve weakening. The man was fractured, almost tortured. "You're a mess. You need my help."

"Help? Hah! By wiping me clean?"

"Jeff, no. That's not what's happening here. I'm not going to take any-"

"You are!" Jeff shrieked, his head snapping around, eyes flashing.

The man was coming unglued and Geoffrey briefly pondered his own safety. Here alone, locked in together. What if things got out of hand? Could Jeff go that far? Would he?

They sat in silence, held in one another's gaze, for what seemed to Geoffrey an eternity. Unspoken words passed between them. At length the fire in Jeff's eyes began to fade, and he said, "Did you ever really care about them?"

"About who?"

"Camilla. Lilian. Patch."

"Of course I did. I do. How can you even ask me that?"

"Why didn't you take the time then?"

Geoffrey clenched his jaw. "You know the answer to that!"

"Do I? I know the answer eight years ago. But not now. How could you just discard them?"

"I was on a treadmill. You know this! The company-"

"The company would have survived!" Jeff stood as his anger flared anew. "You couldn't spare an evening here or a day there? To be with the ones you lov-" He stopped and turned to the door, as if staring through it to the office beyond, the plush imported rugs over hand-hewn hardwood, the rich wormwood reception desk acting as a barricade to the ivory tower of the big man at the top. He turned back to Geoffrey, his eyes accusing.

"It's her isn't it?"

"Who?" said Geoffrey, reserved, composed.

"Her!" Jeff pointed at the door. "How long have you been banging her?"

"Jeff, don't be-"

But it was too late. Jeff was pacing now, contempt seething from his every movement. "You worthless prick!" he spat. "You traded our family for that?"

"Jeff, you're wrong."

He stopped pacing and squared off in front of Geoffrey's desk. His eyes were flat and empty now. "How many others?"

Geoffrey said nothing. He crossed his arms and lifted his chin and shook his head sadly. Jeff gripped the desk edge and leaned across it, his hands and arms vibrating. He brought his face to within inches of Geoffrey's.

"How many others?" he screamed. Spittle flew from the corners of his mouth.

Geoffrey glanced to the door, wondering if the sound had carried through the thick insulation. He wasn't sure of his own reasoning for the action. Was his concern that someone might hear the fray, or that none might hear it and he be trapped, alone in his sanctuary with a mad man?

"Jeff," he said in a soothing tone, "listen to me very carefully. You're wrong. And I can prove it to you."

He moved around the desk and with slow tentative motions put a hand on Jeff's shoulder.

"I'll prove it to you right now. Okay?"

Jeff was unmoving, a frozen statue of despair, but finally he acquiesced with a slight nod.

"Okay," said Geoffrey, "come." He gently guided Jeff into the elevator and they rode it in silence to the private lab above. Upon exiting he ushered Jeff into a chair by the window. "Just breath for a minute. Let me get you a drink and then I'll explain, and show you, everything."

"Okay," Jeff said. His voice sounded faraway.

Geoffrey walked back to the elevator, stepped in and thumbed the lower of the three buttons. He stared at the closed doors as the machinery hummed, taking long deep breaths, willing his heart-rate to return to normal.

Twenty three seconds later the doors opened.

Geoffrey flipped open a panel above the buttons and typed in a code, locking the doors in the open position.

Then he stepped out and walked away, down the softly lit corridor to the garage.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"AND DID YOU THEN, in fact, reset the memory of your copy?"

"No, I did not."

"And why not, Mr. Bartell?"

"When it came to it, he refused to submit to the procedure."

"I see. And when was this exactly?"

"This was the afternoon of the 17th of February."

James Scott May nodded onerously.

"He refused you say?"

"Yes. By the time we were together at my lab he'd become delusional, and paranoid. He attacked me verbally, accusing me of all sorts of betrayal."

"Such as what, Mr. Bartell?"

"I can't even recall most of it. It was the ramblings of a compromised mind."

"Let's see what you can recall. As I'm sure my esteemed colleague will want to know during his cross examination." He flashed a smile at the DA. May knew the prosecution would go after such dangling threads and he'd rather preempt them.

"He accused me of wanting to erase his memories."

May cocked his head. "But is that not exactly what you intended?"

"No. That was never my intention. My plan was to remove the aberration, to reboot him if you will. I was to implant him with a fresh cerebral scan from myself - an up to date consciousness - not terribly dissimilar from updating a computer's operating system."

"I see. And what other accusations?"

"Just one other that was coherent enough to make sense of," Bartell said, his gaze flicking briefly to Camilla. "He accused me of cheating on my wife."

"And was there any merit to this accusation?" asked May, eyebrows raised in concern.

"No. I have never been unfaithful to my wife."

"Thank you for your candor, Mr. Bartell." May walked to the prosecution table and consulted his legal pad. "Now, what transpired as a result of this heated interaction?"

"Well, I tried to calm him, get him to see reason, but it only inflamed him further."

"Did the copy become violent at that time?"

"Not directly, no. But I saw it brimming below the surface."

"And did you fear for your safety at that time?"

"I did, yes. And I knew continuing would cause further harm. Emotional episodes of this kind elevate cortisol levels in the blood, which would exacerbate the cerebral degradation. So I locked him in and left."

"Locked him in?"

"Yes, my lab has only one exit: a private elevator that runs between it, my office below, and the garage level. I distracted him and slipped into the elevator, taking it down to the garage, then I locked the doors in the open position so it couldn't be recalled back to the lab."

"And what time was this?"

"Around three-thirty."

"Three-thirty," repeated May, a finger pressed against his lower lip. "Then you fled to your home to seek sanctuary, did you not?"

"Objection, leading the witness," said the DA mechanically.

"I'll rephrase," said May. "You then went to your home, is that correct?"

"Yes. I drove straight home."

"But he followed you home, didn't he?"

"Yes," said Geoffrey. He looked into his lap and shook his head. "I don't know why I thought he wouldn't be able to get out."

"And when exactly did he arrive at the house?"

"Around five thirty, which makes some sense - it would have taken him some time to crack my password for unlocking the elevator."

"Would you please tell the court what happened then, Mr. Bartell."

"Well, I was in my den and I saw the Mercedes pull into the driveway."

"A black Mercedes, is that correct?"

"Yes, it was a rental we'd been using. Whoever was out in public drove one of our cars while the other took the rental. Anyway, he pulled up and came straight to the den through the private entrance."

"What was his mood when he arrived?"

"He was calm, in an almost trance-like state. It was very strange. He walked in, barely even gave me a glance, dropped the car keys on our desk, then went and sat on the couch facing the fireplace. Never said a word. I tried to engage him but he wouldn't respond in the slightest."

"And what then?"

"Well, my first concern was to get the car out of public view. It would have raised many difficult questions with the staff. I told him to go put it in the garages but he was unresponsive. So I went to do it myself."

"And upon your return to the den?"

"When I returned I found him standing behind the couch with a shotgun in his hands."

"One of your shotguns taken from the wall above the fireplace, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And you keep these shotguns loaded, do you not?"

"Yes, always. They're mounted high enough to escape the reach of children and, besides, no one else has the access codes to my den."

"And what happened then?"

"I approached him carefully, trying to understand what was going on in his head. He was silent, just shifting the gun in his hands and staring at it. When I got within a few feet of him he suddenly looked up and spoke for the first time."

"And what did he say?"

"He said, 'For the good of the whole.'"

"What does that mean, Mr. Bartell?"

"He was referring to a pact we'd made on the first day. That we would both work toward the good of the whole - both of us as two parts of one person. But what I took from it, given the circumstances, is that he meant one of us had to go."

"So, what did you do then?"

"I could see the mania in his eyes," said Bartell, his voice quickening. His breathing became labored as it was amplified through the microphone. "He began to bring the gun down towards the horizon, and I reacted. I stepped in and grabbed the barrel. We struggled for control of it."

"How long did this struggle last?"

"I'm not sure. It's hard to say in such circumstance, but it seemed a few minutes at least."

"And was anything said during this entanglement?"

"Yes. He snapped, like he had earlier at the lab, screaming that I'd betrayed him, that it was his life and not mine."

"Can you tell us what were your thoughts during these same moments?"

"I realized I'd make a very serious mistake. I had a monster of my own making right before me, and I realized I had to put an end to it."

"Mr. Bartell, if I may digress here for a moment, I would like to broach a question which I'm sure the DA will bring up later. In your testimony so far it sounds very much like your copy, your clone, displayed emotions and consciousness which some might contend proves him to be his own separate, rational being. Would that be accurate, sir?"

"No," said Bartell, rearing back as if offended by the question. "No, not at all. You have to understand that as I tell the story I naturally relate it in terms such as 'I said' and 'he said' or 'he did this' and 'I did that', simply because that is the only way to make it grammatically comprehendible within the confines of common language. In actual fact these interactions were more along the lines of what a schizophrenic might have - an internal dialogue, if you will. These were not interactions between two people but more accurately an internal struggle within one mind."

"Thank you for that clarification," said May. He paused, allowing the jury to digest this point of view, then looked at Bartell with a sympathetic eye. "Now, please explain as best you can the final 'internal dialogue', as you put it."

Bartell cleared his throat and came in close to the microphone again.

"Well, as I said, we were locked in a struggle for the shotgun. The accusations raged back and forth. The cross purposes. It was insane. I finally got a position of leverage on the gun and rammed the stock up into his solar plexus. He released his grip and stumbled back a few feet."

Bartell stopped and took two long breaths. He scanned the room, his eyes flicking across the gallery, to the jury, then back onto the defense attorney.

"Continue, please, Mr. Bartell."

"He was standing there, breathing heavily, glaring at me with a look of raw hatred. I knew then that I could no longer live with myself like that."

"So, what did you do?"

"I lifted the gun and I shot him."

"Thank you, Mr. Bartell. No more questions."