Living History, Ben Essex [my miracle luna book free read TXT] 📗

>‘For one thing, Mr. Franklin, you appear to be taking your… re-actualisation… extremely well.’

Crap. I should act more freaked out.

‘Ah,’ I covered, ‘I was unnerved at first, but your Mr. White calmed me down. Explained the situation.’

‘And you were able to understand it?’

Be prissy. He’s insulting your intellect.

‘Of course.’

‘Hmm.’ The Fat Man looked at his hands. ‘Truth be told, Mr. White was somewhat exceeding his bounds by taking you home. I suppose he values the personal touch. But regardless, I’m afraid we won’t be able to allow you out of this facility again for a little while?’

‘What?’

‘You see, we’re going to have to run some tests. The rule is that you must be psychologically and physiologically identical to our profiles of Benjamin Franklin, as close to indistinguishable as possible.’

‘Fair enough.’ I took a deep breath.

‘Otherwise, you’re just another expendable clone.’

Expendable. I tried not to catch the implied threat.

‘And it seems to me,’ the Fat Man smiled, ‘that we might as well begin at once.’

‘Who was your travelling partner to Paris in September 1767?’

‘John Pringle. Sir John Pringle. My usual partner.’

What kind of name is “John Pringle,” anyway? It sounds like a snack-food.

‘What was your proposed motto for the declaration of independence?’

Something about tyrants. Something about God. Uh…

‘ “Rebellion to Tyrants is Obedience to God” ‘

‘By what ratio were you elected president of Pennsylvania?’

‘Unanimous.’

‘How did you feel about George Washington?’

I paused. They had me in a sparse room, hooked up to all manner of lie-detector machines. Polygraph hands wavered and heart-rate monitors beeped. Fooling these machines was not difficult; all one had to do was remain calm, and it’s surprisingly easy to keep the body tranquil when you’re still getting the hang of using it.

The factual questions were easy to answer. Derry and I had stayed up all night cross-checking autobiographies; we’d taken great care compiling a history that at least sounded accurate. But feelings? Emotions? Few of Franklin’s own words had survived free of gross misinterpretation. Nobody knew how he felt.

‘In that case,’ Derry had advised, ‘answer however the hell you like. But try to make it sound authentic.’

‘He was a good, even great man,’ I said, ‘an excellent leader and an inspiration to befriend. However, he did tend to drink a bit too much.’

The white-coated scientists looked up from their clipboards. From the corner of the room, Peter Greuze said:

‘Really?’

‘Very much so.’

The Fat Man shook his head, and lit a cigarette. The questioning resumed.

‘List your thirteen virtues.’

‘Temperance, Quiet, Order, Resolution, Fragility, Industry, Sincerity, Justice, Moderation, Cleanliness, Chastity and Humility. And Tranquillity, of course.’

It took me hours to memorise those, in the correct order. Yes, there was a correct order.

‘And how well did you yourself embody these values?’

‘Well.’ I crinkled my face modestly. ‘I don’t try to work them all at once. One a week, every week, and getting a little better each time.’

‘Do you believe in God, Mr. Franklin?’

‘Of course. But I prefer to call him “the Infinite.” ‘

‘Okay,’ the Fat Man suddenly spoke up. ‘That’s enough. Everybody out of the room.’

Accordingly the scientists fled, leaving me alone with the rounded spectre of Peter Greuze. Still connected up to the polygraph machines, I couldn’t afford to let my heart spike. I concentrated on keeping myself calm. Tranquillity. Tranquillity. Tranquillity.

‘All right, Mr. Franklin,’ Greuze said. ‘I admit I’m still a little bit sceptical. More than a little bit, in fact. But you seem to have answered all our questions honestly and without flaw, and you certainly look the part.’

‘Thank you,’ I inclined my head slightly.

‘I really would like to know exactly how Mr. White managed to do it. He was so vague about his plan, about your exact nature. Why, you could be anything. You might even be the real thing.’

‘I like to think I am. And I do agree,’ I couldn’t resist, ‘Mr. White is very clever.’

‘Well, you can tell him so yourself.’

‘Quite.’

‘While we’re meeting with him.’

‘Excuse me?’

Beep. My heart rate skipped. Greuze pretended not to notice. Knowing I couldn’t afford another such mistake, I started slowly and subtly unplugging myself from the machines; gently pulling electrodes off my head.

‘We’re going to see Mr. White,’ said the Fat Man. ‘You and me. Now.’

‘But…’ Keep. It. Together. I smiled to cover my anxiety. ‘He was shot.’

‘Just a leg-wound. Caught in a gang crossfire. So obviously he can’t come into work, but doesn’t mean we can’t visit him. I have many questions, and I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to answer them. Mr. White always did have a horrible ego.’

‘I… did he?’

‘Come, Mr. Franklin.’ Greuze put his arm around me, pulling me out of my seat. ‘We’ll get you some more fitting clothes, and then it’s off to meet your maker.’

The Fat Man smiled.

And in my head, I started to swear.

We took a car across the east side, down to my apartment.

It was more of a limo, actually. Black with blacked out windows, the seal of the Salmon Corp shining on the doors. An effective shield against all the street skirmishes we drove directly through.

I sat slumped in padded leather, trying to keep my brooding subtle.

Greuze was opposite me, drinking from a bottle of Champaign. There was a bodyguard in the driver’s seat.

‘I do love this city,’ Greuze said. ‘It’s so clean and dirty, all at the same time. Makes you think.’

I made a nonspecific noise.

They’re going to find I’m not in my house. Shot men don’t move. And then they’ll go looking for me and take, what, ten minutes to work everything out? They’ll find Derry. They’ll find my body. They’ll shoot both of us properly_. Oh God._

‘I will never understand why White enjoys this neighbourhood,’ Greuze muttered. ‘It’s so… unabashedly cheap.’

‘I assume your tastes are more refined?’ I snapped, almost without thinking.

‘Poverty,’ Greuze shrugged, ‘is no excuse for a lack of imagination. Being poor is no excuse for looking poor.’

The limo stopped. We got out, in the shadow of my apartment block. Suddenly, the building seemed to loom. A big grey cube, dark and ominous, hogging the street-side.

Mr. Greuze took a little piece of paper from his pocket and consulted it. ‘Fourth floor. Apartment… twenty-one B, apparently. I think I used to live in a twenty-one B. This way.’

Greuze led on. His bodyguard-cum-chauffeur stayed with the car. Apparently, Greuze wasn’t worried about needing protection.

We ascended up a broken staircase, and found my front door.

‘You’ve been very quiet,’ Greuze said.

‘This week’s virtue is Silence.’

‘Ah.’

Greuze knocked on the door.

I could hit that Fat Man in the back of the head and run. I could go find Derry and get away.

In my head, I saw a little drama play out. A drama in which I clubbed out Greuze, hard as I could, and found somewhere quick to hide the body. A drama in which I grabbed Derry by the hand and she swooned in my arms (what? It was a fantasy) and the two of us quickly fled the country, before the Corp could find us. Crossing the ocean and heading for freedom in… in… in…

Freedom where? Where else is there for you to go?

I had no options. But there was nothing to lose. I felt my fists clench—

The door opened.

And there was me. The real me, in my real body. Walking with a limp, and leaning on a cane.

I stood in the doorway with my jaw on the floor.

‘Ah,’ said the real me. ‘Mr. Franklin. I’ve been expecting you.’

I’ll call him Jacob White, even though that’s my name. Maybe just ‘Mr. White,’ would be better.

Mr. White didn’t move like me. That was weird to see. His stride was stately, elegant. He seemed too self-assured. Too confident.

He walked about my apartment like the king of a very small castle.

‘Tea?’ He offered. ‘I’m sure I must have some around here somewhere.’ He started rooting through my cupboards.

No, you don’t. You’re out.

‘Ah, here we go. I brought it just this morning.’ Mr. White smiled, proffering a packet of Camomile teabags. I hate Camomile.

‘I’d appreciate some tea,’ Greuze nodded, looking at me. ‘Would you like some tea?’

I just about managed to shake my head.

‘Only for me then. Two sugars, if you have them.’

Mr. White nodded politely, and went about brewing. It took him a couple of tries to work the kettle, I noted.

Derry, I thought. It must be Derry. Controlling my body somehow to cover for me. Clever girl.

‘Here,’ I offered, rushing into the kitchen. ‘Let me help you pour that.’

I watched my own hands lift the overflowing kettle, spilling a little water in the process. Mr. White winced, and so did I.

‘Derry,’ I whispered, so quiet that I was sure Greuze couldn’t hear. ‘Derry, is that you?’

Mr. White ignored me, striding past.

‘Have either of you read the paper?’ White asked, handing Greuze his tea. ‘Terrible business this morning.’

‘Terrible business most mornings,’ Greuze replied. ‘But I take it you mean something in particular?’

‘A young woman, stabbed to death in her own apartment.’ White shook his head. ‘Senseless. Horrible crime. See for yourself.’

Mr. White picked a newspaper from the coffee table, and threw it to me. I stared at the front page, and wanted to cry.

‘I’m sure whoever did it is filled with remorse.’

Derry.

Derry was the young woman found dead. Only a handful of hours ago. The press print quickly, in this day and age; the newspaper was already updating itself with the latest details of her murder inquiry. Seemed that whoever the killer was, she’d let him into her home voluntarily. There were signs of struggle, but all the doors had been broken open from the inside. Some very expensive VR equipment had been found in her house, smashed almost beyond recognition.

I needed to lie down.

‘Are you all right, Mr. Franklin?’ Greuze noticed my expression.

‘Forgive him,’ White said. ‘He’s from a simpler time.’

‘Well, you would know,’ Greuze grinned. ‘After all, you are the man who made him.’

‘Yes.’ White looked me square in the eyes. Something made me shiver. ‘Yes, I am.’

White knew everything.

Everything.

He knew how the cloning process worked. He knew how the Simulacra was supposed to develop. He knew all the technical terms, all the jargon. He knew exactly what I had done, how I had done it, and how I was supposed to have done it.

He sat and sipped his tea, idly spouting off technical specs and humorous anecdotes about my life-anecdotes which never happened. Occasionally, he’d wince and apologise for any incoherence. ‘It’s the pain meds, see. They foggy up the brain.’

Greuze brought it all. Of course he did. There was no reason for him not to, no reason at all.

Eventually, I managed to scrape my jaw off the floor and make a show of nodding, agreeing, going along with… whatever was happening.

‘Well,’ White finally said, after an hour or so. ‘It’s getting late. And gentlemen, it’s been fun, but now I really need to get some rest.’

We let ourselves out. ‘Drop by anytime,’ said White, closing the door.

‘That all certainly seems to be in order,’ Greuze beamed, as we returned to the limo. ‘Irritatingly, that man is certainly worth his ego.’

‘I’m sure,’ I mumbled.

‘We can let him rest a bit, now that we have an understanding of the process. There’s no reason we can’t