The Mirror Man, стр. 6
It wasn’t suspicion so much as it was amazement that he had been selected at all. He still had no idea why they’d chosen him for this role. There must have been better candidates than him. Someone younger, stronger, better connected. Scott’s only explanation was that he’d been “vetted” by those involved and had proven he could be trusted and was loyal to ViMed interests.
“We tested you repeatedly to see how you’d react,” he’d said, “and every single time you protected the company. Even when people started dying. You toed the line, Mr. Adams. You soldiered on.”
The explanation, like much of what Scott had to say, had sounded to Jeremiah like a veiled threat. And it didn’t answer his questions. Of course he’d protected the company. That was his job. That’s why ViMed paid him. From the very beginning, he’d had the feeling that all of this had been decided without him, a long time ago. But he was content with the fact that they’d selected him, no matter their reasons. It was an opportunity beyond anything he’d ever expected.
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,